


Ace of Hearts

by fowo, ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anahardt is a thing don't even judge me, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Gabe gets a kid, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, heterosexual flirting and gay arguing, i'm adding tags as I go along, jack and gabe dance around each other a lot, there's gonna be angst and pain, training bots get hurt, underage drinking depending on what part of the world you are in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowo/pseuds/fowo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: Gabriel Reyes knows only with the right amount of pressure will he get a diamond in the rough.





	1. The Bright Side of a Corrupt Justice System

**Author's Note:**

> fowo & ThisIsVenereVeritas  
> present
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

No way in hell is the kid on the other side of the two-way mirror older than twenty. There's a bit of light scruff on his chin and cheeks but Gabriel knows with the right kind of genes you don't have to be that old to grow your first beard. His guess is on seventeen, at best.

Seventeen, and yet here he is, in Overwatch's interrogation room, sitting under a too bright light meant to intimidate him, hands tied together behind his back with big, mean handcuffs. Gabriel knows they cut into the flesh and are a constant reminder of how he's here at their mercy—the Strike Commander's mercy.

And yet, the kid is putting up a surprisingly brave front. It's not that he's playing mute, on the contrary: the kid _talks_ like a motherfucker and won't stop. "He's got a mouth worse than yours," were Jack's words that made Gabriel curious to see and come down here with Jack together. And yet he's not giving away any information at all, dancing on their noses. He's good.

"Well, we have a name now," the captain says, handing Jack a file. "Jesse McCree. No date of birth, and we couldn't find any next of kin."

"Typical." Jack's eyes look sad, but his mouth is a firm line, displeasure evident in the way he knits his brows. He looks down to the file and leafs through it curtly, with Gabriel peering over his shoulder. "Just like them to be picking up orphaned kids to brainwash them and—"

"He might've joined on his own free will," Gabriel interrupts. Jack frowns at him, as though the mere thought seems revolting. But he says nothing, just shakes his head and looks back through the file. Gabriel gives up trying to see over Jack’s shoulder, and instead turns and looks back at the mirror, where they're able to see the kid at the table, giving officer Jones a hard time. It's impossible to get the boy to speak about the Deadlock gang, although he must know that there's no point in being loyal to them: he's been caught, and they're not going to bust him out. Men get left behind in gangs like those, Gabriel knows. Once—a lifetime ago, he was dangerously close to ending up just like the kid right there.

"Alright, I'm going in," Jack announces, waking Gabriel from his glum reminiscing.

He twirls around, staring at Jack. "What?"

"I'm going to interrogate him myself," Jack sighs, tucking the file under his arm. Gabriel is painfully aware that he hasn't even _offered_ to let him see. "Jones is getting nowhere, and she looks like she needs a break. Let the kid see the rank, maybe it'll make him break."

"You think the kid will recognize your rank?" Gabriel asks, lip curling into a smile because he knows Jack actually believes that. But he doesn't answer, and Gabriel chuckles a little before adding, "I'm coming with."

"I can handle this," Jack says, brows still furrowed.

"I didn't say you can't," Gabriel says with a shrug. "Just saying that I wanna come with you. You're cool with that, right?"

Jack sighs. His shoulders are tense. Gabriel knows the signs of Jack's patience being stretched, although he's not showing it. "Fine," he mutters, rubbing his forehead. "But none of your bullshit, okay?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but sure. I won't talk unless talked to." Gabriel shrugs again, pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he follows Jack into the hallway.

"Gabe, this isn't a joke." Jack stares at Gabriel as he knocks on the door to the interrogation room.

Gabriel answers his look calmly. "I'm not seeing it as one. Are you?" But he doesn't get to hear the answer because officer Jones opens the door, recognizes Jack and salutes quickly. Jack nods at her with a friendly smile, telling her he and Gabriel will take over. Jones seems relieved, gathers her things and leaves. Jack goes to sit opposite of Jesse, clasping his hands patiently on the plain metal table. Gabriel stays out of the light, choosing to lean against the wall behind Jack, crossing his arms.

Jesse McCree is a dirty kid in a ragged leather kutte, heavy with patches. His hair is long and, if the irregularity of his tips is any indication, tended to haphazardly with scissors by his own hand. His left eye is black and swollen from the pretty good fight he put up when they caught him, and there's tape over his nose. Injuries like these shouldn't be a problem to Overwatch's advanced medicine, but seeing the kid beat up like this even hours after his capture, Gabriel can guess that law enforcement wasn't accommodating enough to patch him up. He's sure Angela will have a talk with Jack about that later, and Gabriel finds thinking that he doesn't mind.

Jesse looks tired and beaten, and yet there's a smirk on his lips when the two commanders walk in. "Good cop, bad cop?" he asks, leaning back in his flimsy chair as good as he can, what with his hands being handcuffed behind his back. "Nice, I like it."

"Jesse," Jack says calmly with a smile. "I can call you Jesse, right? I am Jack Morrison, and I'm here—"

"Who're you?" Jesse asks, not even regarding Jack, but staring right at Gabriel behind him. "Rude not to introduce yourself, y'know."

Jack half turns before looking at Jesse again. "My partner, Commander Reyes—"

"Your pardner ain't got no tongue to talk for himself?" Jesse asks. Jack's brows knit, and Gabriel lets out a soft scoff that has Jesse smiling. "Lookatchu, he does!"

Jack sighs. "Jesse, do you understand why you're here?" he asks, as patiently as he can manage.

Jesse looks back at him. "Well sir, correct me if I'm wrong, but it's my understanding of the situation that y'all busted my ass."

"That's one way to put it." Jack sniffs a little, opening the file. "For someone of your age, you have quite the... skill list, Jesse. I have to say, I am impressed. When I was your age, I didn't..." He pushes the papers around, "I didn't swing a .357 around with your precision, draw schematics, hack computers... You're quite talented, aren't you?"

Jesse's smirk stays wide. "Thank you kindly, sir."

"Now, you’ve done some very bad things," Jack starts, and Gabriel wants to groan and pull his beanie over his eyes, but he doesn't. Jack has never been good at interrogating, and he's treating this kid with velvet gloves just because he thinks someone his age can't be bad and _mean_ it. That, if he's just nice to him, Jesse will see the error in his ways, relent, and come out golden and shining. Because Jack Morrison believes in the good in everyone, even the bad guys.

"Well sir, I'm only a kid," Jesse says with that charming smile of his. "Kids do stupid things all the time, right?"

"Of your caliber?" Jack scratches his perfectly shaved chin, staring at the notes in Jesse's profile. "I'm afraid they don't, no."

"I only followed orders, sir," Jesse says. "I had no idea what I was doing."

Jack sighs again, looking Jesse in the eye. "That's what you gonna tell a court of law, Jesse?"

"Yessir, I'm a dumb kid who got used up and left behind for dead, sir." Jesse sniffs, as if wanting to emphasize the point that everyone should take pity on him.

"Well, this _dumb kid_ , to use your words, got tangled up in some pretty serious grown-up business," Jack says slowly. He reminds Gabriel of his teacher in third grade, trying to be gentle but pushing through the point that he _really_ needs to do his homework. "And I'm pretty sure every judge in this country is going to agree with me that, maybe, you're not as... innocent as you’re trying to convince me you are."

Jesse looks nonplussed. "I'm hurt, sir. But thank you."

Gabriel has to press his mouth into the collar of his hoodie to hide his grin. Jack mentioned the kid reminded him of Gabriel, and still he's walking right into every trap as if them working together for some ten years has taught him nothing.

"What I'm trying to say, Jesse, is that you will very likely be tried as an adult, and locked away in a maximum security prison for the rest of your life," Jack says sternly, trying to come through to the kid as good as he can. "That sounds terrible, doesn't it?"

Jesse's face is still unreadable. "Yessir, horrible. Nothing for a highly sensitive boy such as myself."

"Well Jesse, you're in luck!" Jack's face lights up with a smile of his own. "Because you were picked up by us, Overwatch, and we're willing to help you! You have to help us back, though, you know? That's just how the cookie crumbles. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, right?"

"That sounds highly unsanitary, sir, they didn't allow me to wash myself," Jesse says flatly. This time, Gabriel can't keep in the snort, and even without Jack turning he can see the tips of his ears get red with a blush. Jesse's eyes flicker towards him, the fake smile plastered on his face looking a little more genuine.

"So what I'm talking about is," Jack says, a little louder, "we can offer you a deal. You know how this works, right? You offer to tell us information on the Deadlock gang, and in return, maybe I can have a word with the prosecutor. Maybe you'll get tried as a minor after all. You won’t have to spend the rest of your life in prison! Sounds good, right?"

Jesse shrugs, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Clearly, he's more worried about his position in a literal sense.

Jack clears his throat, recovering his professional smile. "And something else is potentially on the table!" he says cheerfully. "How would you like to turn your life around? Do something good with all these fine skills you have!"

For the first time, Jesse frowns. "Like what?"

Jack actually spreads out his arms a little. "Come work for me! For Overwatch, that is. We can use more heroes in this world, and you just might be cut of the right wood to be one of us!"

Jesse stares at him, at the perfect smile that looks like it's from one of the many posters. He shifts where he's sitting, staring back to Gabriel, who returns his gaze calmly. "That your opinion, too?" he asks, and Jack turns around to look at Gabriel as well.

With all the attention on him, Gabriel pushes himself off the wall, pushing away the hood on his head. "Jack, can you give me a minute with the boy?" he asks, gesturing with a nod towards Jesse. "Alone?"

"Uhm," Jack starts, frowning. His lips form that unhappy, thin line again that has become so much more prominent ever since he was promoted. "Sure," he says then. "Of course." He lifts himself off the chair, nodding toward Gabriel when he pauses to knock on the door to be left out. The second the door closes behind him, Jesse leans toward the mirror, making faces and sticks his tongue out. Only then, Gabriel steps forward, drags the chair back and sits down, lifting his feet to the table. It draws Jesse's attention back to him, lips pursed.

"You're not gonna beat me up?" he asks, sounding a little surprised.

"Not unless you give me a reason to," Gabriel replies with a shrug, patting down the pockets of his fatigues. "You smoke?"

"Yeah?" Jesse says, lifting his shoulders. Gabriel pulls a crushed pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pants, dragging two out, setting one between his lips, and one between Jesse's. Before lighting it, he leans over to open the kid's handcuffs. Jesse moans when his shoulders fall forward, finally released from the tight hold. Shaking, he rubs at his wrists, cigarette almost falling from his mouth, although the sticky dryness on his lips keeps the thin paper glued there.

Gabriel lights both their cigarettes and sits back, pushing Jack's papers aside. "So what's your deal?" he asks.

Jesse looks up from his wrists. "Isn't your buddy supposed to be the good cop? I'm getting mixed messages here."

Gabriel doesn't answer, blowing up smoke through his nose. "I asked you a question, McCree."

Jesse pulls at the cigarette like it's a life rope. "Y'all think I'm just a little kid and I'm dumb, but I ain't. I know this is all bullshit, pardon my French." He blows a small, perfect smoke ring before destroying it with a chuckle. "You think I don't know how this works?"

"So what are you waiting for?" Gabriel asks. "If you know how it'll end, you should be happy to be shakin' hands here."

Jesse shrugs, fiddling with a bare thread on his kutte. It's an ugly thing. It looks like he's been through hell in it, and he probably has. Gabriel can't imagine that the boy has any fond memories of the Deadlock gang, and yet he's still wearing their skull and crossbones on his back like he's proud of it.

When he doesn't answer, Gabriel sighs. "You know, what the commander said is right. You have a chance here... and a pretty damn good one on top of that." He takes another drag on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke to the ceiling, and then presses the glowing tip out between his fingers. He sees Jesse wince, watching with big eyes as Gabriel is unperturbed from the pain, putting the stub down on the table. "Anyone but us picking you up," Gabriel continues, his skin sizzling, the burn mark vanishing even as Jesse is staring, "you would just be locked away in jail for life. Overwatch isn't like that." He holds up his hand, fingers spread. No evidence of a burn to be seen. "We always have use for a good shot and a smart head."

Jesse sucks on his cigarette and doesn't say anything.

"So, the way I see it, Jesse McCree," Gabriel says finally, for the first time regarding Jesse's profile, glancing at the clipped notes on the side. "Life without parole without any deal at all... Sounds pretty rough." He looks up at Jesse with a sharp look. "You're a smart kid, chances are you'll survive the shit they're gonna put you through. Maybe even come out on top. Still, with your life expectancy? You're looking at celebrating your ninetieth birthday behind barred windows. Kinda glum, yeah?"

"You _are_ the bad cop," Jesse remarks.

"But," Gabriel continues without paying attention, slapping the file close again, "come to us, and maybe you can get away from prison. Those eighty years in jail could turn into thirty years of serving for your country. Maybe less, if you're good... or lucky. Get shot, then the deal's off either way." He raises his hands up in retaliation. "That sounds bad, but let’s be serious, a bullet to the head could happen with Deadlock any day. At least we got health care, right? And you get a bed. The food in the mess hall is edible. Except Tuesdays, _avoid_ the food on Tuesdays."

"Y'know what they say," Jesse says. "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

"Oh, absolutely." Gabriel folds his hands on the table, looking Jesse in the eye. "Of course you'll have to dance in line. You'll have to be a real good boy, twentyfour-seven. No more driving on the wrong side of the road and shooting into the air. No more bourbon before noon, and no hookers, at least not on duty. No stealing ice cream from little girls, you get the gist."

"Sounds fucking boring," Jesse mutters.

Gabriel snorts. "It is. And let me tell you, Jack—the Strike Commander, he's a real hardass. No slacking off on his watch, lemme tell ya." He knows Jack is watching but he doesn't look away from Jesse in front of him.

Jesse carefully fingers his black eye. "But this is the better deal, isn’t it?"

"Well, out of these two, anyway."

Jesse's head shoots up, watching when Gabriel crosses his arms again. "What do you mean?"

"There's a third option," Gabriel says. "Do you know what I do?"

"No."

"Exactly. And you never will, unless I tell you. I'm in charge of Blackwatch—Overwatch's covert operations."

Jesse pauses with the cigarette halfway to his mouth. "Overwatch has covert ops?"

"You think these posters look as pretty as they do without someone cleaning up?" Gabriel makes a face. That was a little more personal than he intended, he knows Jack is still watching.

Jesse thinks back to the posters he's seen all around. They're glorious and speak of hope, of a better future, that things can _change_. It always felt so far away, like they were talking about another world. Looking at Commander Reyes sitting in front of him now, eyes dark in his sockets, mouth a firm line, and dressed all in black, it is hard to believe that he should be a part of this glorious organization the posters speak of.

"'Spose not?" Jesse says finally with a shrug. "Yeah no, probably not."

Gabriel nods. "That's your third option."

"Working with you?"

"Yes. There's no glory, and no posters. You won't be a hero and you won't be remembered. You're not gonna carry a maiden away from danger anytime soon. You'll be crawling through shit and guts and garbage so other people—" He gestures at the two-sided mirror, "—won't have to."

"That sounds like the worst deal yet," Jesse says.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm not gonna put my hand in my mouth when I say that you don't want to end up in jail, right?" Jesse nods. "And you don't look the kind of guy who likes wearing a shiny uniform. For a day, maybe, but for the next thirty years? Dancin' in line? shakin' hands? Not so much." Jesse, glumly, nods again. "Well kid, I like none of these things myself. So I'm my own boss, I make my own rules, and I don't miss the stupid uniform. I look shit in blue and Jack polishes up much nicer than I do. So, here I am. No posters, no uniform, no maidens, but I get to smoke in an interrogation room with a minor and treat him like the man I think he is." Gabriel, idly, cracks his knuckles. It's not a threatening gesture, but adds finality to his words. "So what will it be, Jesse McCree?" he asks. "Rotting away in prison, polishing up to become a hero, or vanish from the history books?"

"You're tryna sell me a bad horse here, man," Jesse says. "Looks nice on the outside an' all but I smell the breath, and it ain't smelling good."

Gabriel shrugs. "I get that you want none of this. You want to go back to your gang and the life you know. But that's over now, no matter what you do. You've been dealt a shit hand. But you can't opt out of the game. It's on you try and make the best of it."

Jesse laughs, looking down at the table and stubbing his cigarette out on it. "You're speaking my language here, _jefe_ ," he says when Gabriel stares at him long and hard. He leans back, knees wide and arms crossed over his chest. He looks scrawny, like he's not finished filling out his own body yet. Gabriel called him a man but he knows he's not. He doesn't comment, just raises an eyebrow a little, waiting for an answer.

"Tell you what," Jesse continues. "I get my hat and gun, and we got ourselves a deal."

"Trying to bargain? Ballsy. What deal do you want?"

Jesse laughs again. "You can't tell? I'll work for you. You look like you're an okay enough guy to be around. Makes it easier to get vacation days."

"Hat and gun," Gabriel says, getting up. "I'll see what I can do." He holds out a hand. Jesse eyes at it, but eventually accepts it. Gabriel wears black leather gloves, and his handshake is rough and firm. It feels welcoming, and Jesse feels his heart palpitate when Gabriel goes to the door and knocks to be left out, telling Jesse to wait a bit longer.

Jesse turns to the mirrored wall, grinning at his reflection and whatever is behind it.

* * *

"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Jack says when he catches Gabriel in the hallway. Gabriel shrugs, making his way down the hall, and Jack grabs him by the shoulder. " _Gabe_."

Gabriel turns around and looks him in the eye. "You don't want that kid in prison, right?"

"No," Jack says quickly, "but—"

"And he doesn't belong in Overwatch," Gabriel continues, brushing Jack's hand away. "You two would make each other miserable sooner or later and I'm not watching you ruin yourself because you want to fucking save  _everyone_."

"But I..." Jack begins, but shakes his head at himself, letting it go. When he looks at Gabriel again there’s a small smile on his lips, and it’s the first that doesn’t look like it’s directly from the posters. It’s genuine. "I'm just surprised, is all," he decides to say. "Thank you, though."

"Don't thank me," Gabriel replies, starting to walk again. "Blackwatch is my thing. You worry about your own."

"Yeah. Right." Jack watches Gabriel go down the hall and he stays behind, frowning. "Hey... Gabe!" he calls, before the other rounds the corner. "Uhm... Indian tonight?"

That at least earns him a grin and a nod.


	2. Not Quite Fitting into the Grid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with chapter titles!

When Jack was promoted to Strike Commander, he was issued a new office. It is very nice: spacious, with a comfortable chair, a nice desk, a large screen, and big windows overlooking the compound of their West Coast base. There are plants, and a carpet. Jack cares little for these things, but appreciates them nonetheless.

Being the head honcho—Gabe's words—comes with a lot of paperwork. Jack remembers Gabriel complaining about it, back in the days of Overwatch's beginning, and Jack helping him with it occasionally. Actually being in charge of it all is something entirely different. Sometimes Jack forgets to eat or visit the gym because he's swamped with things to sign, file, issue. So many calls to make, so many hands to shake. And Gabriel isn't always there to help. Gabriel has his own office, his own paperwork, his own phone calls. Jack is in this on his own now.

It's the second day since Jesse McCree has officially become a member of Blackwatch. He spent the first day in the medbay getting properly patched up. Gabriel has been through the paperwork with him, and there's Jesse's file, remarkably thicker now, in front of Jack. Many pages have been added; most with Gabriel's slim, sober hand, and a few with the unreadable chicken skratch that is Jesse's handwriting. Jack leafs through them as he's holding the phone between ear and shoulder. The UN has been calling since early morning.

"Yessir," he answers one the many questions that obviously arises, "it is indeed the case that we could persuade the Deadlock member we picked up for interrogation to join Blackwatch. Commander Reyes took him in personally, after speaking to me about—" He halts for a second, getting interrupted with another question. "Yessir, it is true that we did not agree on this beforehand, but the situation at hand was that... Yes, Commander Reyes might've—"

He takes the phone from his ear, holding it away just for a moment to sigh before putting it back. "Sir, Commander Reyes is instructing Jesse McCree himself as we speak. I am confident in his decision to put McCree into Blackwatch instead of Overwatch, and support him fully. I am confident that with McCree's young age, we can reform him. I'm sure his services will be a great asset not only to Blackwatch, but also Overwatch."

In the end, he gets away with it. It's not the first time that Gabriel has gone against orders. Jack can't recall a single time that Gabriel didn't end up making the right decision, in the end. But it always comes down to this: Jack having to smile his way through the criticism, assuring everyone that things will be alright. Sometimes Jack wonders if Gabriel even notices how much stress he puts on Jack with his behavior. But no matter... Jack is Strike Commander now. It's his job to keep everyone together, and that now includes a ragged teen who thinks he's a cowboy. 

Jack agrees that he will send reports. Set benchmarks for the kid, and keep an eye on him. And Gabriel.

* * *

 

He didn't lie: Jesse has not seen Reyes in uniform yet. He takes it as a good sign that his new boss is able to run around the base in comfortable pants and a hoodie. Maybe it's a special occasion, because of Jesse, but then again all the other members they come across seem to be issued standard uniforms and training gear, and they all stop to salute at Gabriel as he walks past them with Jesse on his heels. Trailing behind them with some respectable distance, but present nontheless, are two mooks following them. Jesse can guess why.

"Gym and communal showers are that-a-way," Gabriel says, pointing down a hallway to the left. "The ladies have their own hallway, and obviously you're not gonna get some weird ideas into that hormonal head of yours because I can promise you, all of these girls can kick your ass tenfold, so you better behave. You have a small toilet in your room as well, if it gets too bad." Jesse wants to make a clever remark, but Gabriel doesn't even let him speak. "You'll be assigned your own locker, too, but I'll have to see about that later. For now, you'll have to trust that nobody's gonna steal your shit, or keep it in your room."

Jesse looks down to the bundle he's carrying in both arms. Another ledger full of paperwork Reyes wants him to read _and_ sign. Jesse can't remember the last time he has read and written so much, if ever. They've taken his kutte and everything else that could be considered _Deadlock contraband_ , as the Strike Commander called it, and all he has left from his former life are the torn jeans and shirt he had on his body. He's been handed new clothes: Two sets of training gear in shades of grey and neon orange with the Overwatch logo on it, a pair of combat boots, body armor that looks fancier than anything Jesse has ever seen.

On top of his little pile is the badge he's been given that acts as a passkey. It has his name on it, his fingerprint, and all sorts of fancy looking information. There's a big yellow C printed on it, and Jesse has noticed the badge Reyes has hanging nonchalantly at his belt has a red A instead.

Painfully absent in all of this: his hat and Peacekeeper.

"Like my gun," Jesse says hopefully.

Gabriel looks back at him over his shoulder before stopping and turning around. "Your gun is to be held in a special locked cabinet unless you're permitted to have it for a mission or issued training," he says sternly. "Nobody here is running around with weapons unless they have a damn good reason to, and you're the rookie. There's kids in this facility and nobody likes an accident."

Jesse knows he's considered a kid by everyone here, but he thinks it's a rude thing to say. In spite of that, he cracks a grin and says: "Who the hell lets kids run around a military base, anyway?"

The second he's said it Jesse hears a tiny voice cry out, "Gabe!" and he can see the features in Reyes' face soften. It has Jesse almost do a double-take because it's such a weird transformation, and when he turns he sees a little girl in a dress run down the hallway and jump past him into Gabriel's arms.

"What the hell," Gabriel exclaims with a chuckle, keeping his arms wrapped around the girl and settling her against his hips. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?" he asks, looking past Jesse, and Jesse turns to see a woman approaching them. She's wearing the standard Overwatch uniform but carries herself with more confidence and importance than the other soldiers he's seen. Nevertheless, there's a smile on her lips as she spreads her arms welcomingly.

"It's summer vacation," the woman says, her accent thick but Jesse can't place it. She goes past him, and Gabriel leans down so she can press a kiss to one cheek, then the other. "I'm happy to see you don't look quite as much as the grim reaper now, Gabriel. Finally getting some sleep?" She teases and gives Gabriel's cheek a pat before letting him go.

"Barely. I hate the beds here." 

"Last time I checked, you could sleep just about anywhere. Even with you and Jack cramped next to each other in a helicopter, you just get comfy on his shoulder and pass out. I've always considered it quite a talent, and Jack's always looked happy, too." The woman chuckles, and Jesse stares at his feet, thinking he's not meant to hear this conversation. The way the commander extends his arm, carrying the girl on his hip, and slowly shoves at the woman with his fist until she slaps him aside: it feels too intimate.

"Gabe, I wanna spar with you," the girl cries, tugging at Gabriel's hoodie, pulling it up and rearranging it on Gabriel's head.

Gabriel chuckles and hands her back to the woman, who softly goes "oof!" when accepting her weight before setting the child back to her feet. "Maybe later," he says. "Gotta break in our newbie." He points to Jesse, who's standing there uncomfortably, feeling like he's intruding on something.

"You the Deadlock kid?" the woman asks. Her expression is friendly, but there's something in her dark eyes that has Jesse stand straight and nod.

"Yes'm, Jesse McCree's the name. I'd salute but I don't want to spill my shit everywhere, ma'am," he says. 

She measures him, gently stroking the girl's hair as she does, and then smiles. "Don't get your panties in a twist, kid. Gabriel is gonna show you the works. I'm Captain Amari, this is my daughter, Fareeha."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am, miss," Jesse says. He looks down to Fareeha, who's staring at him curiously while her mother and Gabriel continue their talk. Jesse shows a grin, but wishes he knew where his room was so he could retreat from the scene that makes him feel like he doesn't belong here _at all_.

* * *

Jesse didn't even finish school but he imagines this is what dorm rooms must look like: a narrow bed, a simple table, a closet and a bathroom small enough that when sitting on the crapper he could pee into the sink.

Standing in the doorway, he finds that the table will be too small for all his new belongings, and he just throws everything down to the floor. The papers, medical sheets, timetables, benchmarks, disclosures, all spill out of the ledger, the armor tumbles all the way under the desk. Jesse doesn't care, he steps over it and hops into the bed, surprised to find it comfortable. He groans and stretches out, enjoying it for a moment before curling up and turning to face the wall. The day feels long, but it's only noon. The entire morning was spent with Reyes showing him around, explaining things and giving orders. Everything is very… _orderly_. Deadlock was never like this. If Overwatch is worse than Blackwatch, Jesse is glad he didn't pick them.

Jesse closes his eyes. It's all a bit too much to digest. He misses his gang, his friends. Although, were they really friends? They left him. Jesse wants to think that he would've turned back to get a friend out. Maybe that is why the Strike Commander wanted him here instead of prison? Jesse doesn't know. Overwatch is so big. So much bigger than him. They fought in the war. Jesse remembers the war, although he rather wouldn't. Sometimes his hands still shake when he thinks back to what it felt like, being afraid of a Bastion unit. He still is, if he's honest. Overwatch fought these things, and _won_. It seems like an impossible feat. Jesse doesn't think he’s like that.  

He nuzzles his head into his pillow when the doubts become too strong, but there's a knock on his door. Jesse darts upright, rubbing at his face, tousling his hair. "Coming," he yells, stepping over the mess on the floor he made. He paws at the electronic door opener, not entirely sure which of the many buttons is the one he needs to open the door, but it slides open effortlessly nevertheless.

Commander Reyes is outside, brows raised when he sees his disheveled state. In his hands, he carries—

"My hat!" Jesse cries, snagging it from Gabriel's hands without hesitating, and firmly pushes it down to his head. It smells familiar.

The world feels a little better.

Gabriel sighs, gesturing at the messy floor. "And what's _this_?" he asks.

Jesse laughs in the comfortable darkness of his hat before tiptoeing back to his bed, letting himself fall back into it with a thud. "Excuse the mess, boss, I wasn't expecting visitors," he says cheerfully.

Reyes sighs again, folding his arms in front of his chest. He makes no further comment besides shaking his head a little, and then asks, "how are you feeling, Jesse?"

Jesse frowns a little. It's not a question he's prepared for. Questions like this weren't exactly common in Deadlock. But he puts on a grin. "Ready to kick some sweet robot booty, boss!" he says, clicking his tongue against his teeth, hands mimicking guns.

Gabriel ignores his antics. "Good. You have some time to rest now, but I want to see you at fifteen-hundred in training hall C. Polish up before that. The Strike Commander will be there."

Jesse flops back to his bed, pulling his hat over his eyes and getting comfortable. "You want to impress him, right?"

" _You_ want to impress him, McCree." Jesse hears Gabriel's heavy footfall on the floor, entering his little room. There's the shuffle of clothes when Gabriel moves, going through his things on the floor. Something soft gets thrown on Jesse's stomach, and Jesse lifts his head to see his badge. "Keep that close," Gabriel says. "It's important. Nobody knows you yet, so you need that to identify yourself around here. It's your key. Watch where you put it."

Jesse twirls the card between his fingers, looking up to his boss. Reyes wears his still at his belt, the big red A for everyone to see. "A is better than C, I'm guessin'?" he asks. Reyes nods. "Why don't I get one?"

Reyes snorts, stepping back from the messy floor into the doorframe. "Nice try, kid. You gotta earn your spurs. Now rest, I'll see you later." He nods at Jesse curtly, and then the door slides shut behind him, and Jesse is left to himself.

* * *

 By fifteen-hundred, Jesse has shaved, showered, and dressed in Overwatch training gear. Looking into the tiny mirror he found inside his closet, Jesse barely recognizes himself. He puts on his hat again, defiant.

He runs into Reyes in the halls later. Jesse’s actually glad to follow him to training hall C, because he's not even entirely sure where it is. The base is huge, and Reyes showed him around much too quickly to completely comprehend the layout. Jesse does recognize the medical wing when they pass by it, though, craning his neck a little when he sees a few people in lab coats standing in a group in front of the glass windows. There's a girl there. She's with the adults, although she doesn't look much older than him. Her clothes are juvenile, not to say girly, not exactly professional, although she wears a labcoat just as them. Her light blonde hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and when their eyes meet in passing, Jesse winks at her. The girl smiles, looking charmed enough to sheepishly look away again.

Jesse looks back to Reyes, only to see he has a few steps in on him. Jesse joggs a few paces to catch up. "Hey, boss," he starts to say, "there's a girl there—"

"Wanting to flirt with your colleagues on day one? Nice try." Reyes looks at him, but he doesn't seem annoyed. Jesse has already figured out that his new boss sounds much stricter than he actually is, so he's not too worried. But that blonde ponytail stays on his mind as he follows Reyes up several flights of stairs. When they finally arrive at the training hall, Jesse wonders why they didn't take the elevator. He is gasping for breath himself, Reyes doesn't even look perturbed. That was probably the point.

Reyes runs his card through the panel at the door and it slides open effortlessly. The Strike Commander is inside, turning around when he sees them. Jesse thinks his eyes look happier when he sees Reyes, if just for a moment before regarding Jesse.

Jesse sees Jack start to smile, but then his eyes flicker up to his hat, then to Gabriel, who gives the slightest of shrugs, and then, with more gusto, back to Jesse. The smile now looks a little forced.

"You're here, great," the Strike Commander says. "Hello, Jesse. Is Reyes treating you well?"

"Sir, I have no reason to complain, sir," Jesse says, obediently. He's not sure if he should salute. He's seen other people do it, but so far nobody told him he needs to when speaking to superiors. The memory of Captain Amari and Reyes being so friendly to each other—going so far as greeting each other with kisses—is fresh on his mind.   

Jack has a clipboard in his hands, and Jesse's eyes lock onto the key card dangling from it. It has a very shiny, golden S printed on it, and Jesse is surprised to read that Jack Morrison is two years younger than Gabriel Reyes. He looks up at their faces as they're talking to each other. It's not like he can tell from looking at them, although Reyes carries with him a more sinister aura than Morrison who, what with his open smile, bright blue eyes and blond hair, looks very approachable. Still, Jesse finds it a little weird that the rank of Strike Commander wasn't given to the one with seniority.

"So, Jesse!" Jack says finally, turning back to him. "We're here to test your combat skills."

Jesse nods, almost enthused. Shooting at things is something he can do and maybe, _finally_ , he won't feel so damn out of place once he's handed his gun back. Maybe he can prove they're not so much better than him, just because they look fancy.

The Strike Commander goes on a tangent explaining that for most soldiers, the demands of joining Overwatch are tough as far as physical requirements are concerned. Now, Jesse is a 'special case' (and Jesse _hears_ Morrison use the air quotes), but nevertheless, they will evaluate his skills so he can be given a score, and based upon this score, a rank, and with that, Jesse and Reyes can come up with a proper training regimen.

Jesse feels like Morrison talks for-fucking-ever, brows furrowing more and more until Jack seems to catch on, renew his postcard-worthy smile, and tell Jesse he mustn't worry. "There is always room for improvement," Jack says and makes half a motion to pat Jesse on the shoulder, but aborts it halfway, clearing his throat into his fist instead.

"I see you're already wearing the uniform, which is _good_ ," Jack continues, staring down at his clipboard and ticking off a point, and Jesse's eyes dart to Reyes, who's standing behind the Strike Commander and looking unphased and impassioned. "The hat is a little unusual but I am a great fan of individuality and freedom of expression so I guess it's okay!"

"Sir," says Jesse, because anything else he comes up with is probably considered out of line.

"You'll be given a standardized pulse rifle for you training. You know—" Jack's eyes basically gleam with pride. "I'm sure you have seen them on the posters. It's the ones we used during the war, always bettered and improved upon our scientists' input." He clears his throat again, cheeks showing off a bit of pink. "I usually help levelling out the prototypes myself, to make them easier to carry for our brave soldiers."

Jack moves over to a locked cabinet that, after a quick swipe with his shiny golden keycard, opens to reveal several pulse rifles. Jack is right, though: Jesse has seen them before, mostly in the Strike Commanders hands, and some propaganda posters. Also mostly featuring the Strike Commander.

Jack takes one out of the foam inside as though it weighs nothing, and Jesse, upon accepting it carefully and curiously, is shocked to feel its weight in his hands. He has to wrap both his arms around it, pressing it firmly into his shoulder just to lift the muzzle up enough. This is something entirely different from his colt, which feels so practical and lightweight in his hand. The rifle feels like he's carrying an infant—a _deadly_ infant.

"Go ahead, give it a try, get a feel for the weapon," Jack invites, gesturing towards a training bot near to them. Jesse follows his gesture to the bot, taking in the training hall in its entirety. The range is built like a simple training ground. There's a few walls, a few ladders, narrow corners. Anything to emulate a field. The training bots are behind a yellow line on the floor marked _CAUTION: COMBAT GROUND BEYOND THIS POINT_. They remain immobile with a soft blue light flashing at the center of their heads.

"Shooting bots that don't move ain't exactly field conditions," Jesse says without looking away from the blinking lights, steadying the heavy pulse rifle in his arms.

"You have time to get cocky after you land a hit, punk," Reyes says behind him, making Jesse tense.

Jack hushes him, adding, "The difficulty level will be raised depending on how well you perform, Jesse. Now, go ahead. Let's see how good your aim is."

"They call me Deadeye for a reason," Jesse mutters.

"Please just do as instructed," Jack asks behind him, and only then does Jesse look up and realize the training hall is overshadowed by a room with glass windows. There's people in suits standing there and looking down at them. He doesn't have to know who they are to know he's being judged for everything he does. With the glass walls between them and their elevated position, it feels an awful lot as if Jesse is some kind of experiment, a lab rat in a little maze.

Jesse looks back at the bot closest to him and, steadying the rifle against his shoulder, pulls the trigger. Before he can even see whether or not he hit anything, the recoil rumbles through his body like an earthquake, and Jesse stumbles back, trying to catch his balance and not let the weapon drop. But, he realizes, he's actually hit his target, and he hears the low murmur of a conversation of the commanders behind him. It has the hair in Jesse's neck stand on edge.

"Good, now go in," Jack says, more audible, and as if on cue, the training bots start to move, maneuvering through the combat ground. Jesse hesitates, his arms around the heavy rifle already growing tired. Should he just rush in, have after the bots and see what happens? Maybe it'd be better to find a hiding spot... maybe climb one of the ladders, take the high ground? But the rifle isn't as versatile as Peacekeeper, so maybe he should just trust in its power and shoot where he is. Different weapons call for different behaviours, right? Back in Deadlock, there was this one guy who _really_ liked dynamite, so he would—

Jesse stops himself from thinking too much when he realizes how many people are watching him doing nothing. He dashes forward into the training range. He finds a bot around the corner that is facing the opposite direction, and Jesse heaves the rifle up, steadying his back against a wall for support, aims for the head, but when he pulls the trigger, the shot goes right into the wall behind it. Alarmed, the bot turns and raises its rifle at Jesse, ready to shoot.

Jesse barely has the time to dodge, roll out of range and into the next corridor. The heavy rifle slows him down and he hisses a curse under his breath. He jumps when he hears a loudspeaker crackle to life, and Jack's voice carries over.

"As a tip, how about you find yourself a proper hiding place? Otherwise you might risk getting injured."

"Gee whizz," Jesse mutters under his breath. "You don't say." But he moves again, thinking that with the bots most likely moving on a programmed track he can't stay in one place too long. He turns up behind another one and gets a few shots in, carrying the rifle lower in his tired arms, missing most shots but at least scraping the side once before he has to bolt to avoid getting shot. 

Jack and Gabriel watch Jesse advance through the track on a holo screen. Jack is tense and his mouth has that slim, displeased line that Gabriel has learned to hate. He's not too overwhelmed himself with Jesse's poor performance, but the suits are not here because of _him_ , so he wants to believe in Jesse's abilities.

"What level are the training bots?" Gabriel asks, pushing his hands into the pockets of his fatigues.

"One," Jack answers glumly, looking down at his clipboard with a sigh. "Gabe, he's no better than someone with no prior training at all."

Gabriel looks at the screen, just in time to witness Jesse heave his rifle up and swinging it wildly at a bot, hitting it with the back of the weapon, causing a decent amount of damage. The bot falls to the floor, defeated. Yeah, that's no military training alright, Gabriel thinks, that's street fighting. Better than being dead. Better than no prior training. But Overwatch doesn't care much about that, not when there's lists to check off.

They watch as Jesse backs himself into a corner. With no way out, the first shot they fire hits Jesse directly into the chest. Jesse gasps, letting the rifle fall to paw at himself, expecting injury or at least damage—but there's only a sound, alerting him that he is now dead, and all the bots shut down immediately.

Jesse realizes he has just failed a game of laser tag. He stands there in shock, hands pressed against his armor, hyper aware of all the people watching him. He grabs his hat, pulling it down to hide his eyes.

Jack heaves out a sigh when he punches in a few commands for the bots to retreat into their storage. "Good job, Jesse," he says into the microphone. "Get back here."

"Don't fucking lie to him," Gabriel snarls. "What was expected from him with this? What did they hope to see?"

Jack heaves another sigh, turning away from the microphone. "Well, Blackwatch doesn't receive quite the funding that Overwatch gets, but I was hoping I could maybe show off a little... Increase funding for future projects."

"For Blackwatch?" Gabriel groans. "Fuck, why didn't you tell me?" Jack looks like he wants to open his mouth to reply, but Gabriel waves a hand at him, pushing his beanie back to rub at his forehead. "Okay, look... Let me have a word with the kid and convince him to try again."

"Gabe, this is—"

"No, just... Look, he's probably a little frazzled, yeah? What with being new and all, all the moving around. Saw Angela in the hallways, fuck, I think those leggings might be on his mind. You know how it is. He’s a fucking teenager."

Jack looks at Gabriel unhappily, but nods. "I'll see to it. Please make sure he actually puts in some effort this time, and not be so distracted."

Gabriel choses not to comment on Jack's choice of words, making sure to grab Jesse by the arm when he retreats from the combat range, and drags him outside for a talk. 

* * *

_Seventeen_ , Gabriel tells himself as he stands in front of Jesse, reading past his sullen expression and catching a glimpse of defiance. _He's seventeen. Remember what it's like._

"You wanna tell me what that was in there?" Gabriel says out loud. He wants to cross his arms, but holds himself back, trying for a more open posture. Jesse sulks, grinding his feet into the ground like he's trying to curbstomp a bug.

"Lots on my mind," he mutters.

Gabriel suppresses a sigh, watching Jesse, but he tilts his head down and all Gabriel can see is the top of Jesse's hat; old, worn leather and layer upon layer of dust and dirt. The bullets adorned on it look ancient, too. He wants to ask Jesse what's with the cowboy getup, but doesn't because he remembers a thing that he promised but hasn't kept so far.

"Would you do a better job kicking sweet robot booty if you had your gun?" he asks.

Jesse lifts his head, staring Gabriel in the eye. "I might," he says, slowly, carefully. "I mean. Lots of stuff goin' on right now, yeah? Can't promise nothing. But I might. Maybe."

Now, Gabriel sighs, rolling his eyes a little. "Go back inside, tell Morrison I'm getting you your stupid gun. We can start a new routine in thirty."

"She's _not_ stupid," Jesse starts, but Gabriel has already turned and is walking down the hallway in the direction of the armory. He's expecting to see Lindholm somewhere, but is informed their engineer is currently away on a mission abroad. Gabriel grinds his teeth. That makes things more complicated. Nice of Jack to tell him when people are absent from base.

Without his connections to Lindholm, Gabriel makes up a lie that he's getting McCree's gun out of storage on Morrison's request, but even after flashing his A card to the person at the front desk, he has to push for it until he's finally, _reluctantly_ , given a box with the colt and ammunition inside, and only after promising that, yes, they can ask the Strike Commander about it later and it will all be in order.

" _Lameculos_ ," Gabriel mouths as he hurries up the stairs again. That took way more time and effort than he's willing to give to get his way, and it's all because Jack is a higher rank than him.

"You'll get a call from the armory sometime today," he warns Jack under his breath as he hands Jesse the box, watching the kid’s face immediately brighten upon opening it. It almost makes up for it, but Jack gives him a look that is far more sobering.

If Jesse notices, he doesn't let it show. He’s happy to have his gun back and does a quick count of his ammunition. It's enough for a few rounds. Not enough to get lazy, but either way, Reyes got him his weapon back as promised, and Jesse isn't ungrateful. He'll make it count. He looks up at Jack expectantly, only to see him nod and gesture towards the range.

Jesse darts back in without hesitation. It feels so good to be quick again, without the damned pulse rifle slowing him down. He's quick to roll out from cover and draw, taking only a split second to aim, shooting two bots in the head. Even when two more around the corner, Jesse isn't afraid anymore; their harmless lasers shoot over his head as he ducks away and back into cover. Actually, it's kind of fun. Certainly better than sitting in a gloomy interrogation room, or being caged into his new, tiny sterile room.

"This is much better," Jack sighs, looking over to Gabriel with a relieved smile, and Gabriel grins back. 

"Told ya." 

And then they witness as Jesse, from one of the elevated platforms, jumps onto an unsuspecting bot, tackling it to the floor with him. As he gets up on his feet, he grabs the stunned bot and throws it against another, and both bots go down in defeat. Without gloating, Jesse moves with a quick roll to the next one, avoiding its puny lasers, shooting as soon as he comes up and hitting the bot right in the head.

"Okay, that was impressive, but what is he _doing_?" Jack wonders out loud, forced to watch as Jesse throws his hat to blind another charging bot before taking it down.

Gabriel can't stop grinning. "Fighting dirty, Jack. The only way you'll survive on the streets."

Ducking behind a beam, Jesse checks his magazine. He has two bullets left, and there's clearly more bots than that. Time to make it count. Peeping out behind his cover, he manages another headshot, but another bot has advanced and forces Jesse out of his position. He does a quick dash, already lifting his arm to fire his last bullet, when the blue light in the robot's head flickers and then turns off. Jesse realizes he is panting. He looks up in confusion as he slowly relaxes, the rush of the fight leaving him.

"That's enough, Jesse," Jack's voice carries over the training ground. "Get back here."

Jesse quickly recollects himself and makes his way back to the entrance of the room where Jack and Gabriel are waiting for him.

"Well, in a scale from one to ten, how impressed were you?" he asks happily. "Not too shabby, eh? Told ya, with the right kind of w—"

"Jesse, please," Jack says, tense enough for Jesse to catch on. He looks over to Reyes, who looks about as troubled as his poker face gets.

"What's wrong?" Jesse asks, arms sinking as he gets a bad feeling in his gut. "I did good, right? I did—I have one bullet left, I coulda... There were..." And then he follows his commander's' eyes up to the room overhead, at the people in suits huddled together, conversing without any emotion in their faces that Jesse could judge. Jesse worries, especially when Jack says nothing more.

It's Gabriel who breaks the silence. "Don't worry about it, McCree, you're fine. You did a great job, all things considered. That's all that matters."

The way Jack breathes through his nose at his words has Jesse doubt that, but Jack nods before gathering his things and leaves the room with a curtly goodbye. Jesse looks up and sees the suits left the gallery above as well.

"I hit as many targets as I could, what with only having so little ammo," Jesse says, sounding defensive as he looks at Gabriel again, hoping for any sign of what this outcome means for him. Did he do good or not? Gabriel says he did, but Jack's eyes said something else entirely. What does it all mean? Jesse is scared. He doesn't want to go to prison.

"I was actually very impressed," Gabriel says flatly. "It's like you're a different person with that gun of yours. What'd you call her?"

"Peacemaker," Jesse answers, palming the colt with both hands. "Yeah, I'm... I could never get used to anything else to be honest. Feels natural, y'know? I dunno." He cracks a smile that doesn't feel genuine even to himself. "Woulda been a whole lot better if I had my lucky belt, boss," he quips, trying to cover the insecurity in his voice with the joke.

Gabriel snorts, making sure everything in the training hall is shut off  before opening the door and holding it open for Jesse. "C'mon kid, you earned your dinner." 

Jesse quickly steps out of the hall, watching as Gabriel locks the door again with his key card. "Hey," he says finally, "boss?"

"Hmm?" Gabriel looks over.

"Will these people send me to prison?" Jesse asks, making a vague gesture towards the empty gallery.

Gabriel follows his movement, then back to Jesse, rubs his neck and shrugs. "I doubt it," he says. "You did good. And, for what it's worth, you're still my subordinate, and if they want to let you go, they'll have to go through me. Alright?"

Jesse thinks back to the Strike Commander's shiny golden key card, but nods anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We're trying to make weekly updates a thing, but it all depends on our capacity. 
> 
> VV wants you to know there were going to be smart remarks for chapter titles... until we realized how serious this story is going to be. Oops. 
> 
> fowo's always happy to be bothered on [tumblr](http://fowo.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/fowo__), and wants everyone to know that this fic has mostly been written while listenin' to "[The White Buffalo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJQPnG2sf6M)." 
> 
> And... If you liked what you saw, why not [buy us a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/A801AXT)? We both love what we do and doing it for free, but we're both in tight spots in our life and could use every single buck. Thanks!


	3. Another Day in Paradise

 

The hallway leading to Jack's office has glass windows and flags hanging on the walls. Gabriel's eyes follow the circle of golden stars as he waits impatiently for something to happen. He's not allowed inside, which isn't exactly fair. It’s not even reasonable. He's the commander of Blackwatch, after all. He should have a say... at least be permitted to listen.

But Jack insisted it would be better this way. What is he afraid of? That Gabriel might say something out of line? It's no secret that Gabriel's smile isn't as picture book perfect as Jack's, that he doesn't polish up as nicely or likes shaking hands, and _certainly_ not with omnics. But still. This, right here, is the source of the strain on their relationship.

Not that they would ever talk about it.

When he hears footsteps, Gabriel looks up, and is surprised to see Ana approaching him. "What are you doing here?" he asks, and it's coming off more gruffly than he intended.

If Ana minds, she doesn't let it show. She walks up to him and leans on the wall, crossing her arms and ankles comfortably. They stare at the European flag together for a while, neither of them saying anything.

"It is good, what you did," she says finally, when the shared silence doesn't feel alien anymore. Gabriel looks at her, but Ana is just smiling and looking ahead. "It is sweet that you are looking out for the boy, Gabriel."

Gabriel rubs a hand over his mouth and beard, shrugging. "Just doing my job," he mutters, a little surprised by Ana's kind words. Praise feels rare, these days. "How the hell do you know?" he asks.

"Jack told me," Ana says softly, petting Gabriel's arm. "He thought it was very noble."

Gabriel frowns. Jack didn't tell _him_ that. He shrugs again, looking away. "We wanted to test the kid's combat skills. No use in trying to do that with a weapon that weighs about as much as him." Gabe doesn't like the rifles much himself. He can use them, if he has to. He can use just about any weapon, or make anything into a weapon. In the war he's taken on omnics with nothing but his hands, ripping out wires when he wasn't left with anything else to fight with. He knows Ana would rather use a knife before picking up one of the rifles herself. Gabe isn’t going forbid the kid from using his revolver if that's what he can fight with.  

"Gabriel," Ana says softly next to him. "Are you okay?"

Gabriel sighs, rubbing his neck. "He tell you about the funding, too?"

Ana tips her head to both sides. "He might have mentioned something like this, yes."

"Well, he didn't tell _me_ until we already sent McCree in. That’s not exactly fair. Not for me, but neither for the kid. Certainly not for the kid. The last week must've been a nightmare for him; Deadlock disbanded, getting taken into custody, rotting in our holding cell, getting interrogated, then recruited, and suddenly he's one of the good guys?"

"Have you talked to him?" Ana asks cautiously.

"No," Gabriel mutters, grinding the tip of his boots into the ground. He lets out a heavy sigh. "Couldn't bring myself to do it... And he scrammed right after, said he needed a nap. Didn't look like he wanted to talk to me anyway." He stares ahead for a moment, then snorts a small chuckle, nudging Ana in the side. "Can't wait until Fareeha gets too cool to talk to me."

"Ugh," Ana moans. "Please. Let me have these few feeble months before she turns thirteen and I have to say goodbye to her good behaviour. Soon it'll be boys, boys, boys."

They share a laugh, and after that it's silent again. Gabriel stares at the closed doors of Jack's office, rubbing his lobe. How much longer is this meeting going to take?

"Gabriel," Ana says softly. She's closer to him, suddenly, and her warmth seeps through their clothes to him. It's supporting, somehow. "Don't be angry at Jack. Please? All your fighting is eating at him."

"Oh, so _he's_ the victim in this?" Gabriel mutters, but Ana's pained expression makes him sigh. "I'm not angry... Chances are _he's_ angry. Getting McCree's weapon out of storage wasn't the plan, and I made Jack deal with the aftereffects of it."

"He's not angry," Ana soothes. "You both haven't settled in your new positions."

Gabriel shrugs. "We're both kind of wrong, I guess."

Before Ana can answer, the doors open, and Gabriel jumps to his feet, watching several people in suits walk out. At the tail end is Jack, shaking hands and exchanging words, smile perfect and almost camouflaging the neverending lack of sleep. Ana and Gabriel stand by the sidelines and watch the suits scatter, some of them shaking their hands, thanking them for their service in the war. It makes Gabriel more uncomfortable than usual. When the seemingly neverending stream of people ceases, Jack finally closes in on them, and Ana pets Gabe on the back.

"Be the mature one about this, Gabriel," she says softly. "I'm sure he didn't mean to make decisions over your head."

Gabriel nods absently, his eyes focus on Jack's uneasy smile as he approaches.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Jack mutters back. 

They're alone in the hallway.

"I want you to know," Gabriel says, looking Jack in his beautiful blue eyes, "that I didn't mean to go behind your back. I want you to know—"

But Jack shakes his head, interrupting Gabriel. "I know," he mutters. "I know you didn't. It's alright. I'm not mad, I'm—" He sighs, shrugs, smiles. "I'm glad you did this for him. Your methods are a bit... crude, at times, but the outcome always is the right thing, so... Well, of all of us I guess you're the the one most suited for this job. You thought outside of box, as usual. I'd never think to hand the kid such a small thing against such hardy bots... and he did improve."

"Yeah." Gabriel smiles back. "Yeah, he really did, didn't he. I was pretty impressed."

"Me too." Jack lets out a nervous, but relieved sounding laugh. "And our benefactors were, too." He rubs his neck and looks at Gabriel sheepishly, and Gabriel remembers the boy some ten, fifteen years ago that Jack Morrison was before all this, when they first met. "Hey, look, so... I should have told you sooner about this. This whole funding thing."

"Yeah. You should have." Gabriel shakes his head. "But whatever. Let's move on. So tell me what we're getting? What's the damage?"

Jack's smile becomes a little wider. "It's not as much as I had hoped, but still pretty good!" He makes a dramatic pause. "You're getting a ten percent increase starting next month, and can expect another ten percent on top of that if we meet benchmarks during the next three after that." 

Gabe whistles through his teeth. "So twenty total? That's a lot!"

Jack laughs. "Well, if we meet the requirements," he soothes, but looks genuinely happy. "But yes! Yes, it's a lot."

Gabriel sighs, leaning back against the wall. he grabs his beanie and pulls it off, runs a hand over his shaved head. "Jeez, I was really worried for a second!"

"I know. I'm sorry, Gabe." Jack smiles, and, after scanning the empty hallway, steps in, his hands finding Gabriel's hoodie, pulling at it just enough to make Gabriel take a step forward and into Jack's space. "I'm glad I have you to look after Jesse. I do think he's a great addition to Blackwatch. But you'll keep an eye on him, right? Make sure he dances in line." 

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Gabriel lifts Jack's hands up with his own, kissing his knuckles. "I'll tell him the good news, tell him he did good. Kid could use some good news."

"Yeah..." Jack rubs his thumbs against Gabriel's knuckles, fluttering long, light lashes. "Maybe it can wait a few minutes, though... I don't have an appointment for another hour."

"Is that so?" Gabriel chuckles. He lets go of Jack's hands, cupping his cheek and feeling a patch of uneven shave under his fingers. "How rare."

Jack sighs a little, and Gabriel can't tell if it's because of his touch or his comment. "Feels like it, doesn't it?" he asks, voice hushed. Gabriel chuckles and nods, and they kiss.

"My office is right there," Jack mutters against Gabriel's lips. 

"I know," Gabriel chuckles, nipping along Jack's jaw. It earns him a soft noise, but he moves away and looks up. "And it's tempting. But if you want me to keep that promise I just made, you'll have to let me go."

"I hate it when you're reasonable," Jack sighs, nuzzling his face against Gabriel's. "Isn't that supposed to be my job?"

"Sorry," Gabriel chuckles. "I'll keep it in mind though. Maybe later?"

"Lunch," Jack says sternly.

Gabriel laughs softly. "It's a deal. Isn't this romantic?" 

"I am thoroughly seduced," Jack says, watching woefully as Gabriel detaches himself from him, but not without another soft kiss.

* * *

Jesse's stomach growls and he makes a face at himself. He's skipped dinner yesterday, and although now would be the time to get up and eat a late breakfast, he doesn't feel like it. That spectacle yesterday ruined his appetite, and now he feels too anxious to leave the room, preferring to lock himself away. If someone wants something, they'll have to come to him.

As if on cue, there's a knock on his door.

Jesse groans, turning over in his bed and pushing his face into his pillow. "Go away," he calls. "Busy working on my beauty sleep. Lotsa work with a face this pretty, yeah? Come back later."

He bolts upright when the voice on the other side of the door is unfamiliar and female. "I just wanted to know if you're alright."

Jesse stumbles out of bed, painfully aware that he's only in a t-shirt and his boxers, smoothes his hair back with both hands and opens the door.

In front of him is Ponytail from yesterday. She's carrying a small tray of food, and the smell of coffee is so strong and welcome that his gaze travels easily past her boobs and to the food, and he sees scrambled eggs and bacon and toast.

"You came all the way from the medbay to bring me food?" he asks, looking up into her big blue eyes. She smiles at him. She has plump, lush lips, looking sheen with a layer of peach-colored lip balm. 

"I heard about our new member," she says. Her voice is gentle, but carries a confidence he did not expect from someone as pretty and fragile-looking as her. "But we seem to have missed each other so far, so I wanted to introduce myself and make sure you're getting accustomed all right." Her accent is subtle, but he can pick out her strong, clear vowels nevertheless. She pushes the tray of food forward politely. "And I didn't see you at dinner or breakfast, so I thought you skipped your meals, and eating is very important for you! Especially in a stressful situation like yours. So please, eat?"

Jesse can't refuse her after a speech like that, although he's embarrassed. He accepts the tray and takes a step backwards into his messy room, muttering, "uh, thanks. Come in."

"Thank you," she says with a soft smile, stepping into the room. The door slides shut with a soft noise behind her, and while Jesse sits the tray down on his desk (not without having to push papers away to make room) and sits down on the bed beside it, the girl folds her hands in front of her, standing there with the unmistakably otherworldly aura of a girl that is alone in a boy's room. "I'm Angela, by the way," she says before the silence can become awkward.

"Angela?" he repeats, trying to mimic her pronunciation. 

She laughs at the attempt, making Jesse's chest feel tight. "Don't worry about it. We're a colorful bunch. I don't think we're ever going to get rid of our accents." She covers her smile with a slim hand. "I asked Gabriel to teach me Spanish once and he wouldn't stop making fun of me. And Ana and Reinhardt have their arguments in up to three languages. You're Jesse, right?" 

Jesse nods, wondering how she knew before remembering that the sign on his door has his name on it. Again, he can't shake the feeling of being too much of an outsider. The idea of everyone being so friendly with each other makes it hard to stay encouraged. He would like to fit in, but he's not sure how to break the walls. But Angela is still smiling at him, and when he sees that his hat is occupying the only chair in the room, he picks it up to set it down on his head before gesturing toward the stool while taking up the fork. Angela steps over the mess on the floor like she's floating. Jesse pretends not to watch, busying himself with his breakfast. It tastes surprisingly good, much better than anything he's had in Deadlock. Probably because Overwatch can afford actual cooks who know what they're doing, and aren't just heating up canned beans.

"Thanks," he says around a mouthful of bacon and eggs, washing it all down with good, hot coffee. "I was really hungry."

"I figured," Angela says. "You should know, skipping a meal after aggressive training is not good for the body."

"Uh," Jesse mutters, spearing up bacon. "You know about that, huh?"

Angela smiles and extends a hand to pat his arm. "Everyone has a rough first weeks," she says. Jesse chews and thinks he can't imagine _her_ having a rough time.

"I doubt I'll last _weeks_ ," he mutters. "There were suits watching, and I think I fucked that up."

She shakes her head, making her ponytail bounce. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. Jack is excellent at what he does. He puts a lot of work into the development of Overwatch—and Blackwatch. Gabriel, too. They're heroes, you know? You should believe in them." 

Jesse looks at her smile and remembers how tense both Reyes and Morrison seemed yesterday, the hushed arguments that they tried not to let him hear. He doesn't want to ruin her optimism though, so he says nothing, stuffing his mouth with the rest of his food, scraping up every little bit.

"So you're a, what, a nurse or something?" he asks, and there's a twitch in Angela's smile that makes him regret the question.

"I'm working on my doctorate in nanobiology right now," she says flatly. "It will take a few more years, naturally. Strictly speaking, I'm not even affiliated with Overwatch." She laughs. "I'm a doctor, of course, a surgeon to be exact, but I haven't finished my studies. I always thought the English language lacks in this department, it is rather unprofessional." 

"Right," Jesse mutters, feeling dumb. He should have known that when Overwatch lets teenagers into their ranks, they have to be special. He doesn't think he's anywhere near as impressive as Angela, though. Nanobiology? That sounds way complicated. All _he_ can do is shoot things. What kind of power horses are they herding here, anyway? "Sorry," he adds, awkwardly.

Angela smiles, and he cannot tell if it's a little condescending. "Do not worry, Jesse," she says. "Nobody expects a girl my age to be a doctor. I deal with this basically every day."

"Yeah." Jesse frowns, picking up the small plastic cup of jello, turning it around in his hands before looking up and holding it out for her. "Want my dessert? I'm not big on this stuff."

"Oh, sure! Thanks." Angela accepts the cup and a spoon, ripping off the plastic foil and taking a first bite. Jesse hopes this will be enough to move on from their ruined conversation, but before he can think of another topic, the door behind them opens. Jesse jumps, almost losing his hat as he turns around to see Gabriel standing there.

"What the fuck?!" Jesse yells. "How did you get in?"

Gabriel flashes his key card. "Law of the superior key card, kiddo." He looks at Angela, who takes the spoon out of her mouth to give a quick wave. " _¡Buenas, doc!_ Am I interrupting a date?"

Jesse feels himself blush, but Angela just laughs. He can't help but wonder what letter is on her keycard, and if she could just have come into his room as well, without bothering to knock. To his surprise, she gets up, leaving the half-eaten jello on his desk. "Not at all," she says. "Just doing some charity work."

Gabriel snaps his fingers, thumb pointing behind him into the hallway. "Lemme have a word with the cowboy."

"I was leaving anyway," Angela chirps, hopping past the mess on Jesse's floor, and Jesse wonders if that's the truth, because she looked somewhat comfortable with her dessert until Gabriel barged in. He watches with dismay as Angela pets Gabriel softly on the chest. "Be gentle," she teases, and he ruffles her hair with his hand in return, making her squeal and flee into the hallway.

Jesse scrapes on his plate although there's no food left.

"I'm glad to see you ate," Gabriel says behind him. "I was a little worried yesterday when you didn't show up at mess. You holdin' up okay?"

"You can be honest, boss," Jesse murmurs. "Just tell me how bad I fucked up."

There's a pause, and Jesse doesn't dare to look back to see what Gabriel is doing behind him. "Not bad," Reyes says then. "Like I said yesterday. You did good. We're getting an increase in funding. It's not a fortune, but it'll go a long way in annoying but necessary fields like covering traveling expenses, medical bills, getting us better equipment, the likes." 

"Oh." Jesse looks around after all. "That is... good?"

"It is." Reyes steps over the mess in Jesse's room, sitting down on the chair Angela was sitting on just a moment ago. Unlike her, he looks too damn big for it. Jesse looks up under the rim of his hat to see Gabriel regard him. "I know yesterday was stressful,” he begins calmly, “and it wasn't fair of me to put you through that on what was basically your first day. But sometimes life is like that, and whether you like it or not, it's probably gonna happen again. That's kind of what life is like, yeah? You're gonna have a lot more up and coming. You'll just have to make the most of it."

"You're mighty good at pep talkin', boss," Jesse says with a grin. "No wonder they're letting Morrison do the talking."

"Watch what you're saying, ingrate."

"Ingrate?" Jesse chuckles. "Prison's starting to look mighty relaxing right now."

Gabriel snorts. "You're far from getting sent to prison, McCree. After yesterday, I think you can start to expect good things happening for you."

"Like vacation days?" Jesse grins. 

"Hell no. Not as long as there's things like rogue omnics and terrorists and shit running amok." 

"I was joking, _jefe_ , relax." Jesse laughs and then lets himself fall back onto his bed. Reyes is quiet next to him as he stares at the sterile, white ceiling. He'll have to put up posters, he thinks. Make it more homely. This is his room now, right? He looks over to Gabriel, who's silently watching him. "So," Jesse starts. "That means I'm officially in Blackwatch now?" 

"You've been 'officially in Blackwatch' since you put your John Hancock under the document that makes you my ward, Jesse."

" _Your ward_ ," Jesse repeats, laughing to himself. Shit, he thinks, that's right, I'm still a teenager without any parents.

And suddenly, Jesse is thinking of his parents  and a time before Deadlock and before everything went to shit. Well damn, it was the war, so it probably was shit already, but it didn't quite feel like it. And now he's apparently one of those heroes the posters always talk about, and he doesn't feel like it. He sees Morrison with his shiny armor and the stupid heavy rifle, and he's a hero, and probably even Reyes. And maybe even Angela, being a doctor at her age. But him? All he has is a revolver he's not too shabby at surviving with, but now there's not only surviving anymore, now he'll have to _save_ people. And there's his benchmarks, and Jesse feels like no matter what Reyes says, there's a lifelong prison sentence dangling over his head, and if he misbehaves or just isn't good enough  he'll  be sent away to another institution. That's what it all is, isn't it—whether it's Deadlock, or Overwatch, or Blackwatch, or prison.

Jesse exhales loudly, trying to get rid of the anxiety spreading through him.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he asks, without looking over to Gabriel. "Now that I'm one of the good guys?"

"Well," Gabriel says, pushing himself off the tiny chair, "judging from your face, you look like you could use some workout, maybe try the gym today. We're not gonna start anything official before Monday, so take it easy and enjoy the free weekend. Get comfy and meet everyone. We're having a few agents coming home at the moment, I'm sure if you'll just get out of your room you'll meet everyone eventually. Not everyone is going to come to you, like Angela."

Jesse makes a face. "I didn't ask her to."

Gabriel chuckles. "I know. She's very nosy and calls it concern. Look, maybe come down for lunch later, alright? No more holing yourself in."

"That sounds like an order, boss."

"Don't make me make it one. Once Monday hits you're gonna have one hell of a routine pushed on you, and I'll be giving orders soon enough."

"Alright, boss," Jesse says, pushing his hat over his eyes as Gabriel leaves the room. It's suddenly very quiet when he's alone again, and Jesse thinks that maybe Gabriel was right.

* * *

 

The mess hall is a glorified cafeteria. Jocks taking up the best tables, the cheerleaders not too far off, nerds in lab coats huddled by themselves in a corner. Jesse stands there with his tray in his hands and doesn't quite know where he fits in. He wonders where Reyes and Morrison would sit, if at all. Jesse can see them eating in their fancy offices. Neither of them is here, anyway. 

It's almost too late for lunch. Jesse isn't hungry after his late breakfast, and he's been stalling, not keen on being reminded that he's the new kid. The coffee this morning was really good though, so he forced himself to get a cup of that at least. Now he's standing there, surveying the tables and hoping that he'll maybe see Angela's high ponytail, sit with her. Surely she'd rather want his company than the other doctors who are like twice her age? Jesse hopes so, at least.

Before he can find her, someone calls his name, and when Jesse turns, he sees the woman from yesterday, the one that spoke with Reyes. Was that her name? Armani? Something like that. Captain anyway, that much he remembers. She looks very beautiful, although he's aware that she has to be twice his age.

"Hello, Jesse." She smiles at him as she stops in front of him. "Having the first-day jitters?"

"Technically, it's my third day," he answers.

"Well you're a smartass, huh?" She rolls her eyes, but laughs a little. "Come sit with us."

She turns around and Jesse watches her leave. He can't tell if that was an order, of if the woman is just that welcoming. Is it a motherly thing, maybe? Either way, it makes him uncomfortable, and he follows reluctantly.

At the table, there's the girl, her daughter. Another new, nice dress, and shiny golden beads in her hair. Her skin is darker than Jesse's, and he wonders what part of the world these two are from, but he doesn't dare to ask. Both of their names have escaped him, they were too unusual.

The girl has finished her lunch, tray pushed aside to make room for some papers and crayons. She watches as Jesse sits down across from her, her brows furrowing in her small face. "You can't sit there," she says.

"I sit where I want," Jesse mutters, taking up his coffee for a first sip.

"Fareeha," her mother scolds. "Let him."

Jesse tries to reconstruct the same of her name in his head. Fairy-something? It doesn't sound English at all. Angela was right, Overwatch _are_ a colorful bunch.

"So, Jesse," she says, "how old are you?"

"Seventeen," he mutters, not keen on the conversation. He's raising his shoulders up defensively, but it doesn't deter her. 

"You must be quite gifted, then, if you were asked into the program."

Jesse isn't sure if that's a compliment or not, but he laughs a little. "I wasn't so much asked as, uh, cornered," he argues, and while this is better than prison, it still irks him. "But yeah, 'spose I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

The captain frowns a little, drumming her fingers on the table. "You're too young for the field," she says. "Seventeen? Even for the military you have at least to be eighteen."

"Gangs don't care much for the rules, ma'am," Jesse mutters into his coffee cup. What's she bringing her daughter to work like this if she's so worried about them being too damn young. 

"Has Gabriel given you any idea of what your job in Blackwatch will be?" she asks. "The organization is relatively new... Gabriel is still constructing things. I expect that, just like Overwatch, there will be areas that won't require combat? Computer monitoring, encrypting or hacking, that kind of stuff."

"Why would I bother with tech if I'm supposed to be doing clean up?" Jesse asks.

"Well, obviously Gabriel has trust in your capabilities. And I'm glad he took you in, but you're still a minor, and it's a terrible position to be in. I think if you could find work in a position that won't put you in danger, maybe you should take that—"

She stops herself, her gaze raising upward, and before Jesse can wonder about it, it gets dark around him like something covered the lights overhead.

"And _why_ is my seat taken?" a large voice gravels behind him.

Jesse turns his head and almost spits out his coffee. He has never seen a man as large as this. The monster standing behind him is so big that sitting down, Jesse barely reaches his waist. The hand he can see, carrying a tray, is bigger than his head. Jesse feels his jaw drop, mouth hanging loose as the giant glowers down at him.

"Young man?" he snarls.

Jesse wonders if he's actually going to piss himself. "Me, what, me, I didn't—I didn't know this was assigned seating, I didn't want to—"

"Told ya," Fareeha chirps behind him, but Jesse can hardly pay any attention to her because the giant lowers himself down a bit so his face is on Jesse's height, and Jesse stares at the giant scar running through one half of his face.

"You stammering away is not how men should greet each other," the giant bellows. He, too, has a thick accent, something that makes Jesse think of vikings, people wearing giant axes and the skulls of their enemies as trophies.

"I didn't—" Jesse starts again, but the giant shakes his head. Jesse wonders why the captain isn't saving him from getting eaten alive. So much for her motherly instincts.

"Do you not know how to greet a superior, boy?" A massive hand is shoved in his field of vision. Jesse stares down at it. 

"I don't understand," he mutters, and before he can wonder if those are going to be his last words, he hears a sound behind him.

He snaps his head around and sees the girl laughing, her hands pressed over her mouth, eyes wide and looking wet. When he turns back again, he sees the giant is grinning as well. It's a wide, wolfish kind of smile, intimidating but... surprisingly good-natured?

"Did you have your fill for today, Reinhardt, or should I expect some more bad pranks in the future?" the captain sighs, shaking her head.

The huge man wipes his good eye and shakes his head. "I'm good," he says, and his tone has changed. Suddenly, Jesse thinks of someone telling bedtime stories to children, and doing all the voices, too. His mind struggles to catch on with the transformation, but a giant hand comes down to pat him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry for scaring you, my friend," he says with a smile, grabbing Jesse's hand and giving it a bone-crushing, hearty shake. "I'm Reinhardt. No hard feelings, I hope?"

He rounds the table to sit himself down next to the girl with his tray, stroking his large hand over her head. She nuzzles her head into his palm with a smile. She looks like a doll next to him.

"And who are you, young man?" Reinhardt asks. Jesse still struggles to process all the new information.

"Gabriel's new recruit," the captain answers in his stead.

"What?" Reinhardt's eyebrows raise and he stares Jesse up and down, then looks over to the captain. "Ana, are you serious?"

Jesse finds his voice, clearing his throat. "Yeah," he says. "Jesse McCree's the name." 

Reinhardt leans back, taking up his cup of coffee. "Well, I wish you the best of luck."

"Reinhardt," Ana scolds.

"I mean it," he says, raising his hands up in a soothing gesture. "But you know how Gabriel is."

Ana sighs, shrugs, then nods.

"How... how is he?" Jesse dares to ask.

"Well, young Jesse McCree, Gabriel can be a bit... difficult to work with. It's not so much about teamwork and being friendly with him. He cares about results, and not so much about the means he has to apply to get his results. Bit of a, ah... _Muffel_?"

Jesse doesn't bother to ask what that means. Judging Reyes, he can imagine. He sips his coffee, watching Fareeha draw and Reinhardt eat what looks like his dessert: pastries with powdered sugar on it, the kind of like Jesse doesn't think he has seen before. When Fareeha gets him to share with her, Jesse frowns.

"You're getting powdered sugar all over yourselves!" Ana sighs, getting up to lean over the table. She takes a paper napkin from Fareeha's discarded tray, dabbing at Reinhardt's face. "Unbelievable, Reinhardt, you're no better than my daughter." She hold his chin in her hand, cleaning him up. "Do you want to be a bad example?"

Reinhardt chuckles and Fareeha laughs, cleaning her face with her hands, licking the sugar away with her tongue.

" _Mitnichten, meine Teuerste_ ," Reinhardt says softly.

Judging from Ana's face, she understood what that meant. Jesse doesn't, but he can tell from Reinhardt's tone that it was affectionate. Ana certainly didn't seem to mind, although she's clicking her tongue at him.

Jesse can't watch. He stares into the other direction, looking around the mess hall. What's with all these people being so close? Is Ana just overly affectionate? A mother thing? Reinhardt can't be her husband, can he? He's confused and feels out of place.

"Reinhardt, can we practice together later?" Fareeha asks, pushing her crayons aside. Jesse peeks back at them, surprised that this girl seems to be wanting to fight every grown man she comes across.

Reinhardt smiles, carefully pushing a few hairs from her forehead. "I would love to, little one, but I can't. I have to pack up, I'm leaving tomorrow." 

"What?" Fareeha cries. "You just got back!"

"Fareeha, I told you we would only be seeing him shortly today," her mother scolds. "He's a busy man, and the bases in Europe rely on him."

"Why don't we go with him?" Fareeha cries, grabbing the table. "We can go to Europe! It's not far from Egypt at all!"

"Oh little one, that is not how it works at all," Reinhardt tries to soothe, taking the girl up and setting her on his leg. Fareeha pouts, her small arms crossed in front of her chest, ignoring Reinhardt's gentle tries to console her. Jesse does, too, sipping his coffee glumly. "I promise I'll teach you some close range defensive moves once I get back, okay?"

Jesse stares into his coffee. He remembered it being tastier from this morning.

"I'll bring you some German candies, if you like," Reinhardt tries, still trying to cheer Fareeha up.

"No sweets!" Ana complains.

"How about a fancy switchblade knife, then?" Fareeha says, laughing.

"No!" Ana declares in horror.

Reinhardt laughs. "I'll see about those sweets."

"Promise?" She holds up her pinky.

" _Indianerehrenwort_ ," Reinhardt chuckles, hooking his giant pinky around her little one. Ana groans.

Jesse stands up without a word and leaves, leaving his cup and tray behind.

"Ah!" Reinhardt mutters. "That was offensive for an American, maybe?"

Ana sighs and pets his arm. "I don't think this is what this is about, Reinhardt," she says, and they watch Jesse leave.

Jesse almost runs into someone between the doors leading out of the mess hall. He's not sure where he's even going. The thought of his tiny room seems suffocating. He needs air.

He mutters curses under his breath when he realizes he's utterly lost in all those damn corridors, and he knows one of the big halls he's come across has a map displayed on a wall, but he can't even find _that_. Not that he would want to look at it anyway, not when there could be people seeing him, seeing how goddamn lost he is. And he sure as hell ain't gonna ask somebody for bloody directions.

He stomps down a flight of stairs, and at least nobody is trying to stop or talk to him. He finds a door that is marked safety exit. It has a panel next to it, and when Jesse slides his key card over it, to his surprise, it flashes a green light and opens.

The door is heavy as fuck, but he's outside, standing between pebbles and patches of wild grass and a few dandelions.

The wind almost pushes his hat off his head, and he grabs it with one hand, enjoying the breeze on his face. Behind him, the heavy door clicks closed with a soft noise. 

It's overcast today, and Jesse wanders around the area until he finds a patch of sunshine and sits down in it. Three days since his last smoke. He would kill for a cigarette right now. The cafeteria wasn't selling any, but Jesse is sure that somewhere on base there have to be shops. Not that he has any money. But there has to be something to keep people busy. Surely everyone would go mad otherwise, right?

He sits until his little patch of sunshine has crept away from him, and the sun is low enough to sink behind the base. It's a modern building, white and shiny. Nothing like he's used from New Mexico. Santa Fe got bombed pretty bad during the war. Overwatch looks very modern, secure and pretty.

Jesse collects a glob of saliva and spits it in its direction. It doesn't get far.

With the sun gone, it begins to get cold. Jesse is only in jeans and a shirt. Maybe if he hangs around the medbay for long enough, he'll find Angela after all. Maybe she can help him get cigarettes. Oh, but surely she has to hate smoking? Cancer and all. 

Jesse groans and gets up, petting dirt off his jeans as he scuffles back to the emergency exit. Sliding his key card over the panel, it beeps. Once, loudly. Then blinks yellow. 

Jesse frowns, waits for the blinking to stop, and tries again.

Beep, blink.

"What the fuck," Jesse mutters, pulling at the door handle. Still locked. He tries his card again. Same reaction as before. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Jesse snarls, rattling at the door. It doesn't budge. Of course not. Jesse kicks at it, tries hammering against it and calling. Nothing.

He's locked himself out.

"Stupid piece of shit garbage!" Jesse yells, hauling his card to the floor. _Of course_ it would just lead him outside, not back in. No, that would make actual sense.

Jesse turns and goes away. He doesn't know where he's supposed to go, but maybe he can find another entrance.

He doesn't. He's efficiently locked in too, ironically: The entire yard he is in is surrounded by a high fence that doesn't look like Jesse should climb it. There's barbed wire he can see, and he's sure there's gonna be some sort of circuitry as well. Jesse is pretty sure Overwatch is protecting their property better than a rancher off the Santa Fe River.

"Shit!" Jesse yells. He picks up rocks from the floor and flings them at the fence until he tires himself out. He kicks at the floor. He sits back down.

He's cold, and beginning to get hungry again. Now he regrets not eating lunch. The sweat he's worked up dries on his skin and his arms break out with gooseflesh. He rubs his naked arms and presses his knees into his eyes, hugging himself for a little warmth.

What a fucking great weekend, he thinks. This can't be worth it. He misses home. Whatever that means. His old life.

He wants to get away, maybe try climbing the fence after all. Worth a try, right? Getting electrocuted has to be better than being trapped here.

He looks up at the fence, sniffing when his nose begins to run. And where would he go? What would he do? Hitch a ride? He's not even entirely sure where in the US he is right now. Deadlock's disbanded from what he heard, so he doesn't exactly have anything left. And Peacekeeper is somewhere inside the building behind him. He can’t desert her like this.

Jesse wipes his nose on his arm, wipes that on his jeans. How long until they realize he's gone? A day probably, usually. But not before Monday, he thinks. Nobody is gonna miss him before Monday, when he's expected to show up for training. How long does it take to starve? Longer than this. He's been without food and shelter longer than this.

But his bed in his sterile room was comfortable. He kinda liked it. Better than sleeping crowded in corners with no mattress or blanket at all.

Dusk falls quicker than he anticipated. He cries a little; from anger, he tells himself. It’s easier to blame Reyes, Morrison and all of Overwatch. With the daylight fading, Jesse begins to shiver. He huddles against the wall of the building, trying to get away from the wind that occasionally blows over the small field, hat pushed deep over his ears and into his neck. Important to keep the neck warm, he knows. He makes a mental note to never leave a building without a scarf or bandana ever again.

Exhaustion takes its toll on him. He thinks he’ll probably just freeze to death if he drifts off, but his head keeps nodding down to his chest, and Jesse is asleep.

He starts when he hears a noise, and jumps awake. He groans when the first thing he feels is terrible cold to his bones, and every muscle aching. The next is the bright light that blinds him, and he brings his hands up to shield his face even when he hears someone call out, “Sir, I found him!”

Jesse groans again, realizing there’s multiple flashlights across the compound he can see. It’s nighttime. Jesse feels like he slept in the fridge. Not fresh, only cramped and cold.

The last thing he needs in his life right now is an angry Gabriel Reyes stomping into the circle of light and pulling him up to his feet.

“ _¡Mierda, cabrito!_ ” Gabriel shakes Jesse by the shoulders. “You alright?”

Jesse is too dazed to wonder if Reyes sounds angry or worried or something else entirely. “Yeah,” is all he gets out. “Cold.”

Someone actually hands him a blanket. Jesse is embarrassed, but the warm seeping through his body as he wraps himself in it feels too good to let himself be prideful. Gabriel has a communicator and tells the search party their job is done before he looks at Jesse again, shaking his head.

“We’ve been searching all over for you,” he says. “Come on, let’s get you inside, idiot.”

Jesse hides his blush in the blanket he pretends to be fixing around himself. There’s two more mooks with Gabriel outside here, standing wordless with their flashlights behind them when Gabriel opens the security door.

“I fell asleep,” Jesse says lamely, hopping inside. The heat of the hallways is a blessing. He keeps the blanket though. “How long was I out?”

“About six hours,” Gabriel answers. He waves the mooks away and walks with Jesse down the hall. Jesse follows half a step behind. “Didn’t find you in the rec room or mess hall or anywhere, and Ana mentioned you ran off during lunch.” He glances back at Jesse over his shoulder. “I actually thought you bailed.”

“No,” Jesse mutters. “Them fences look pretty serious, boss.” 

“They are. I’m glad we didn’t have to scrape your scorched corpse off the ground.” They walk in silence for a while, until Gabriel asks: “But you wanted to run away?”

“No,” says Jesse again. It doesn’t feel like a lie. They came looking for him. He doesn’t know how to feel. He’s tired and wants something to eat and a hot shower. If Gabriel was worried, it was certainly not for his sake. Jesse sniffs. “How did you find me?”

Gabriel shrugs. “We used the cameras to track you down.”

“Cameras?”

“Sure. We checked the most obvious places you could be, and when you weren’t there we had to resort to cameras.”

Jesse is silent. Gabriel senses his unease and looks at him again. He stops, grabbing Jesse’s shoulder.

“It’s not like that,” he explains. “We don’t monitor you or anything. The key card is as bad as it gets.” He flips said key card at Jesse, who grabs it dazedly. He didn’t see Gabriel pick it up. “Best case scenario, you were just lost. And you were. It’s a big facility. Happens to the best of us. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been out _there_.” He yanks his head back the way they came.

“Glad to be showin’ you somethin’ new, boss,” Jesse mutters, fiddling with his useless key card that locks him out of buildings and doesn’t even keep his CO out of his room when he’s talking to a girl.

Gabriel snorts, turns and starts walking again. “Fact is you were still on base, so I was right,” he says, broad shoulders shrugging. “You caused no trouble. No reason to call authorities, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Jesse doesn’t mean it when he says it. The whole day was bad enough. This is just the cherry on a creamy sundae of shit.

Gabriel escorts him back to his room. Makes sure he goes inside. Accepts the blanket back. Tells him to get some rest and be ready for tomorrow.

Jesse nods to it all, watching the door close. He’s alone, again. 

_Don't forget why you're here. You're trapped. You're their tool. You have to do what they say, but that sure as hell doesn't mean you need to get along with 'em._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, fowo being German comes in handy. We'll not provide translations for either Spanish or German, because that's just how Overwatch is. (fowo has run the German through google translate just to see what happens and as you can imagine, it's lacking.)
> 
> [Buy us a coffee](http://www.dict.cc/)? We love what we do, but we're very broke.


	4. Name of the Game

When the alarm clock next to his bed flashes and changes to 1200, Jack lets out an audible sigh. Noon. Noon! He can't remember the last time he stayed in bed this long. The blinds are closed, filling the room in darkness with some golden spots of sunshine. It's.... nice. Relaxing. It should be relaxing, but Jack feels like he's forgotten what that’s like.

 Something warm brushes against his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" Gabriel murmurs behind him in a low whisper. He's pressing a kiss to Jack's shoulder blade, and Jack sighs again.

 "Nothing."

 Gabriel chuckles and swipes away the book he's been reading, putting the holopad aside. "You've been staring at the clock for like the past hour. And don't try to tell me you were still asleep, you're stiff like nothing else."

 Jack sighs again, flopping to his back and smiling at Gabriel, who’s propped up on his elbows, staring at him with those narrowed eyes and pursed lips that tell Jack he's not going to let this go until he knows what's up. "Well, it's late," he says, somewhat sheepishly. "And I don't think I remember the last time I stayed in bed so long."

 Gabriel raises his eyebrows. "Been a while, then? Is the memory even in color, or is it in black and white?"

 "Shut up." Jack shoves at him, pushing a pillow into Gabriel's face. He remembers one time clearly: that temporary hole they lived in after they both got separated from the others at the SEP, both with recommendations for Overwatch, although it wasn't called that at the time. It was nothing but a secret, a side project, and nobody knew what the future would be like. They spent two whole months in a tiny, wall studio apartment while the government collected signatures, built building, enlisted names. For Jack, after getting pushed through basic and climbing the ladder quickly and ending in SEP, it felt like a vacation. It was so easy to ignore the threat of war with the two of them together like that. They were just friend; just friends, but not really. Everything in those two months lacked clarity, but Jack still misses it, somehow, selfishly. Back then, the worst parts were the nights, right after waking up from another dream about omnics. But at least Jack always had Gabriel by his side to pull him out of it.

 Now it's work. Constant work. On a normal weekday, Jack gets up at 0500, and the earliest he'll be in bed is 2300. He has to fit several calls, half a dozen appointments. Maybe a trip to another country. Being on the plane does not mean he gets a break, though: he'll do more calls, sign more papers. Have video conferences. And he has to smile all the way through.

 It's hard work. It's much harder than shooting a gun. It's easier to follow orders and shoot, than decide on things and ask questions. It seemed like being at war, following the command of Gabriel as his lead, was easier than keeping the peace by his own design.

 But Jack doesn't complain. His days are long and tiresome, but when he falls into bed, he knows he's done good. It's all worth it. His men adore him. His superiors, the UN respect him. The people love him. That's all that matters. Jack wants to make the world a better place. He wants to make everyone happy. If that means that sometimes he'll be sore and stressed and question his own choices, so be it.

 He wants to keep everyone pleased.

 He rubs his face. "I have to get up," he mutters. "We can't stay in bed forever just because it's Sunday."

 "Who says we can't?" Gabriel asks, getting comfortable beside him. "Not like anyone's gonna complain."

 Jack grins, but he doesn't really agree. It’'s hard explaining this to Gabriel. Of course it was different in the war, and they both have changed, but it seems some part of Gabriel doesn’t understand that although Jack's job is _just_ keeping peace, it's not a job that ever ends. It doesn't matter what day it is. Jack can't take a break or he'll lose track, and catching up is almost impossible. There are always people to hire, to let go. To train. To find. Later today Reinhardt is leaving to check up on the situation in Germany. They're building another base there. That costs money. Jack needs to keep track of the numbers. Consider what people he will station in Germany once they're done. Torbjörn will be back in the US soon. Was anyone else leaving? Going? Jack cannot remember what his calendar for this month said.

 "Hey." Gabriel grabs him, pulling him out of the rush of thoughts. Jack almost jumps. "Relax," Gabriel says, holding on to him. Jack cannot help but wonder if it's less to console him and more for selfish reasons.

 "I need to get to work, Gabe," he says, turning his head to give Gabriel a small smile.

 Gabriel clicks his tongue. "My mother would hit you with her shoe if she knew you're working on the holy sabbath."

 Jack's smile turns a little sad. "What about breakfast?"

 "Bit too late for that, ain't it?"

 "I need to shower."

 "You smell fine to me, golden boy."

 "Okay, but I need to assign training regiments—"

 "You have a secretary for that."

 Jack groans, exasperated. "What about you, then?" he asks, trying to turn things around. "What about Jesse? His training?"

 Gabriel sighs. "I have things under control. No filing or computer needed, just patience and hard work. I'll get through his thick skull eventually."

 Jack frowns. "Are you sure?"

 "Jack, this isn't rocket science. He's a kid."

 "Exactly. He thinks... he's not taking this seriously. Everything is a joke to him. How will you—"

 "Jack, _please_."

 Jack stops himself from talking and sinks against Gabriel's chest in retaliation, accepting the embrace he's offered. But he cannot help but check the time.

 It's a struggle to keep everyone pleased. Gabriel pushes, and Jack gives.

 Warm light fills through the closed blinds, reminding him of the sunny day outside that he's missing. But Gabriel's kisses distract him, and Jack lets it happen. Gabriel mutters something against his neck, something about relaxing, and Jack nods absent-mindedly, closing his eyes. The tickle of Gabriel's beard is familiar and nice on his skin. Gabriel hasn't buzzed his hair in a while. It's getting long, to the point where each strand gives just a little resistance before giving in under Jack's fingers. He loves the feeling, running his fingertips over it, down to Gabriel's neck, pressing gently into the muscle.

 Gabriel takes it as a unspoken command. He slips lower.

 Jack is about to say that he didn't mean for him to—bites down on the words, lifting himself into the touch instead. Surprised that Gabriel wants to give; it's gotten rare over the past years, they've both gotten more worn out and serious. So little time to fool around. Gabriel's breath feels good on his skin, tickling his hair and making it stand on edge. He blinks at the ceiling, fingers pressing against Gabriel's head.

 Gabriel murmurs words against his skin. Jack is already breathless. The bed seems too small, suddenly, when he curls his toes and draws his legs in. Gabriel holds him; his hips, his legs. Jack struggles, just the right amount to get his wrists pinned down to the mattress.

 He sees the clock in the corner of his eyes. It flashes and changes to 1211 as he watches. Jack closes his eyes before Gabriel can catch him looking over.

 He doesn't. Another person pleased.

* * *

Monday was the first day that reminded everyone that summer was temporary. Dawn was cold, and it rained thin, feeble drops that felt like overexcited mist. It was no conditions to be exercising, or so at least thought Jesse McCree.

His alarm had went off an hour prior, and although Reyes and told him to be in the gym at six sharp for his first session of training, Jesse dwindled. It wasn't exactly for a reason, certainly not to annoy Gabriel, and neither to test the length of his reins, but Jesse didn't enter the gym until it was at least a minute after. Gabriel was waiting for him, dressed in training gear and still smelling of coffee and his shower. His expression was less inviting and looked as though Jesse had just answered the question as to what he was doing being so late with "your mom."

The idea in itself was hilarious, and very well worth the twenty push-ups Gabriel ordered him to do for being late.

The _irony_ of it all was that Jesse couldn't do push-ups. Not even a single one. He tried—he did. He managed to push himself up, with his hips sinking towards the floor and elbows shaking, and then he collapsed right back to the floor with an indignant noise.

"No," said Gabriel. "Not like this." He showed Jesse how to do it, where to put his hands and feet, told him to keep his spine straight, and told him to try again.

Jesse, again, landed with his face on the floor.

Gabriel tried two more times to get him to do a single pushup. By now, there were people in the gym. It wasn't that everyone looked like they were a super soldier like Morrison and Reyes, but even the more faint looking women were clearly in better shape than Jesse.

Gabriel finally gave up and told Jesse to "get up on your knees, do girl push-ups." It was embarrassing for the both of them. Jesse kept staring at the floor as his arms shook and sweat build up on his forehead. Gabriel rubbed his temple, shielding his eyes from whoever walked past.

The rest of the week wasn't any better. Jesse would show up on time, but he had to do push-ups anyway. A lot of the time he was vaguely thinking of the foggy memories of primary school. Gabriel taught him how to properly lift weights, how to add said weights, how to lift without straining his muscles or hurting his spine, the right amount of sets, how to break and how to perform an _actual_ push-up, and just like those foggy memories Jesse didn't particularly care to remember any of it. Every damn day Gabriel had to remind him, repeat what they had done before. Gabriel was patient, but took no shit. Jesse could tell underneath his calm facade he was questioning his choices. Jesse smiled at him and told him it wasn't his fault, he just forgot what Gabriel tried to teach him.

It was true, too, because Jesse didn't care to learn.

"Do you know what your best time is?" Gabriel asks him on Thursday. They're outside and it's cold, and Jesse holds himself as he's stands in a shirt and shorts on the track field. The week isn't over yet and already he feels ready to just collapse and die; it feels like his entire body is having a hangover, a throbbing headache. His muscles feel like they're undergoing rigor mortis, stiff and as though they might fall off if he moved any more.

Jesse sniffed, rubbing his nose. "Never, uh," he says, wrapping his arms around himself again, "never really checked." He chuckled a little, grinding his shoes against the floor. "No time to keep track of how fast you are when you're on the run. You just gotta be faster than the person after you." He grins at Gabriel with a smug smile, like he's proud of himself. "I'm a pretty good sprinter."

Gabriel pulls out a holopad from his pocket. "We're not doing sprinting today," he announces. "Do a mile. That's three laps around." He taps around the holopad without looking up when Jesse groans audibly. "Doesn't have to be perfect, that's what benchmarks are for."

Jesse stares at him bemusedly. The last cigarette he had was last week when Reyes offered it. He hasn't done that since. The last time Jesse had a drop of something to drink, had have fun with anyone, was ten days. Four days since he fired his guns. He's not even allowed to have it for training. "No unscheduled shooting for you," Gabriel told him when Jesse had, reluctantly, asked for it. And what's all this training gotten him? Forty girl push-ups and a whole lot of bullshit.

"Whenever you're ready," Gabriel tells him. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his hip tipped to one side, looking relaxed and patient. Jesse hates it.

He continues to grind the tip of his shoes into the track field. "What if I dun wanna?" he asks.

Gabriel's expression doesn't change. "You'll get reprimanded."

"So more push-ups?"

Gabriel loosens his arms and shakes his head. "I could pick that," he says. "Punishment is up to me. I can make you do more push-ups, or do other things to make you reconsider your behaviour."

"Sitting in the corner and thinking about what I've done?" Jesse grins.

"Basically. I can send you to your room and take away your privileges."

At that, Jesse lets out a short bark of laughter. "What privileges? Take away my blanket? Give me a bucket to shit in? I'm not exactly living like a fuckin' king, boss."

"No, but I can take away much more. You don't even know it. Internet access, permission to leave base, extracurricular activities, I can take all of that away from you. I can assign you clean up duty if I want to."

"That doesn't really make a difference, boss," Jesse says with an exaggerated shrug. "I don't have no holopad, no car, and I can easily refuse extra work."

For the first time this morning, Gabriel sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. It's half past six and they're out in the field for his training. Jesse is sure Gabriel has a dozen better things to do than stand here and endure his behaviour. Good, Jesse thinks.

"Well, McCree," Gabriel says as he lowers his hand from his face, "if that is the case, I'll have to file a report regarding your repeated insubordination, and hand that right to Morrison. You already gave up the information on Deadlock we wanted—you might get placed in quarantine, with force if you resist, and then have to wait until we decide what we're gonna do with you. We'd reach agreements with the government, sign a few papers, and then you'd be shipped out to an institution. Probably not maximum security at this point, but still prison."

They stare at each other for a little while. Gabriel's face is stone cold now, and Jesse realizes his boss _knows_ that Jesse is testing him right now. All this was nothing but a show of strength.

As the realization sinks in, leaving a sick feeling in his stomach, Gabriel jerks his chin to the field. "Ready to run for your life, cowboy?" he asks.

Jesse looks over at the field. He's never realized it until now, but the grass around them looks really green after getting a fair amount of rain with the summer gone. He can spot a few pink clover flowers not too far out. A bird flies by overhead, chirping.

He swallows his pride and starts to run.

* * *

  
One thing that Gabriel had to admit as his vice was his bad habit of collecting notes all over the place. Currently he’s herded them all over his desk to put together into a weekly report. But so far nobody has complained about his way to do things; that is, Jack hasn't. And that means that nobody really cares.

Truth is, however, that Gabriel doesn't really need his collection of notes. They're nothing but a small recording of Jesse's progress, or lack thereof. It’s mostly a list of the ways Jesse thought up to aggravate him and test the reins. Appearing late, taking exaggerated breaks, flirting with the women in the gym, talking shit, straight up refusing orders. Gabriel is supposed to turn it in tomorrow, but after this morning's training, Gabriel isn't so sure. Eventually he let the kid off after just a fraction of what he had planned. Maybe he'll give Jesse tomorrow off, give him some time to cool down. Gabriel didn't expect Jesse to welcome all this with open arms, and he didn’t think this was going to be easy—training a kid who worked and fought dirty. He expected a pessimistic attitude, just not so soon. _Gabriel_ needed some time to think about this. His work didn't stop while he took time for Jesse, and it seemed to pile up while he was dealing with a moody teenager. Apparently last week's good news helped nothing at all.

Gabriel slides the half-written report away on his holoscreen and gets up. The base they're in is one of the smaller rooms, and yet the trek down to the long hallway with the flags lined up on both sides takes forever. When have they started to be so far apart, even physically?

Jack has a secretary. She's sitting in a small office that doubles as an entrance area before Jack's actual office. When Gabriel enters, she's making calls in another language. Something east European? Not quite Russian—Gabriel picked a few things up during the Omnic Crisis—but close. Gabe catches her attention, gesturing towards himself, then the door with raised eyebrows. The secretary gives a wave without even stopping to talk.

The door to Jack's office is guarded by another cardkey slot, and Gabriel grabs his from his belt and slides past. Jack's office is nice, much nicer than his own: it's made to meet people and look good. Big window, green plants, plush carpet. Gabriel doesn't envy him, though: Jack's office is filled with screens. It's for conferences with people all over the world. Gabriel’s glad that at least he gets to be left alone.

Jack looks up at him from his screen and smiles a little. "What brings you here? Finished your report already?"

"Not yet." Gabriel pulls up one of the comfortable chairs in front of Jack's desk. "Maybe later today."

"Good, good," Jack replies. "It'll help to have Jesse's results overlooked and have him receive his weekly goals. It should help with his morale, too."

"About that," Gabriel replies slowly, stretching out in the comfortable chair. "Can I take the kid to the shooting range today? Or maybe tomorrow."

Jack knits his brows for a moment. "I must admit, I'm not really worried about his shooting skills," he says then. " I worry more about him getting into proper shape, work under a strict clock, and his teamwork. You know– _uhm_ –the kind of things that were probably not so important to Deadlock."

Gabriel just stares at Jack for a moment, his expression neutral. Jack squirms a little in his seat. "What?"

"That's what _you_ worry about, yeah," he says. "But certainly not the kid. He's dancing on my nose right now. He doesn't want to put in any effort, but he also doesn't want to go to jail."

"Some emotional exhaustion is to be expected." Jack smiles a little. "You know this, you've been always been better at this than I—you break them down, then build them right back up, and then they're soldiers."

“Does McCree looking like a soldier to you?" Gabriel snorts. "He's a punk ass kid and doesn't want to go to jail. He doesn't have any of that 'risk my life for humanity' bullshit motivation. So, I need to give him some initiative, a reason to work, and then, _maybe_ , I'll get into his head."

"But shooting?" Jack looks unhappy.

Gabriel sighs and leans forward, pleadingly. "Look, he needs something to look forward to. Maybe make, I don't know, Wednesdays all about shooting training bots with his gun. Maybe Friday afternoon if I can squeeze it in."

 "We don't usually order his kind of ammunition—" Jack begins to say.

 "We got a budget increase, right? If Blackwatch has more money, I want to use it to train my employees." Gabriel has laced his fingers together over his knees, staring Jack right in the eyes. "Cut back on my shotgun barrels if you have to, I can use the damn rifles if it comes down to it. I don't like 'em, but—"

 "Well, you're different," Jack interrupts, smiling a little, helplessly. "I think it would be more important for Jesse to master a standardized weapon—"

 "It's not about _mastery_ , Jack, it's about giving him _a reason to care_!" Gabriel huffs a little when his intention to emphasize his point ends with him raising his voice.

 Jack looks away. Gabriel immediately feels guilty, sitting back a little in a less aggressive posture, letting the moment pass before Jack looks at him again, brows furrowed. "Is it really that important, that he uses that old gun?"

 Gabriel shrugs, rubbing a hand over his beard. "Depends on whether or not you care about Jesse not caring. If it's about money, yeah, Jesse not giving a shit _might_ be an issue. If it's about a kid in a bad situation getting a second chance, then I can't fucking turn a blind eye."

 They look at each other for a few moments until Jack gives a nod. "We confiscated a few boxes of ammo from their hideout. I'll see if I can't have a shipment of more by next week. For now, it should be enough for a field trip to the shooting range. See if it does anything."

 Gabriel smiles. "I'm sure it will help. Thanks, Jack."

 "No, no. This is you doing good work, Gabe," Jack says and returns the smile. "I can see it. I'm really happy that you decided to take the kid in. I'm sure you'll be a good influence." He starts to get up. "Now, I don't want to throw you out, but—"

 "Actually, do you still have a minute?" Gabriel asks, and Jack sits back down. "When will the kid get his first paycheck?"

 Jack's easy expression hardens immediately. "I have no control over that."

 Gabriel raises his hands soothingly. "I know, but—"

 "Gabriel, that's a whole other department, government-controlled and all. Whatever you're thinking about, I would strongly suggest you refrain from doing so." It's not a suggestion, Gabriel knows; this is Jack's Commander voice. He sugarcoats orders in nice-looking words but beneath the pretty looks, Jack Morrison is unrelenting steel. "You can use my name to pull a gun out of hold, but you cannot ask me to tamper with wages. I'm—I'll do a lot for you, Gabe, but—"

 This time, Gabriel interrupts, impatiently. "Nice to hear what you think I'm capable of doing. It's not what I'm fucking askin' of you, Jack. I want to know when the kid's getting paid—to have something to hold over him. Kid's right, he can't suffer a lack of privileges if he doesn't _have_ any to begin with. With his rank, he can only leave base with permission from further up. Kid's fucking locked in here. It looks nicer than prison and he probably doesn't have to make a shiv out of a pen anytime soon, but for _him_ it might just be the same. If he has some money to spend so he can buy a few smokes and a bottle of beer he thinks we don't know about, let him have a few titty mags and what other things kids his age need to thrive, maybe I could have something I can actually work with."

 Jack looks embarrassed. Whether it's because he thought Gabriel would ask him for something illegal, or Gabriel bringing up the earthly desires of a growing young man, Gabriel isn't sure. Might as well be both. "What exactly are you asking me for, right now?"

 "The date to Jesse's first payday, and permission to leave with him to go to town. Coupl'a hours. Let's say three. One to get to town and back, two for shopping. Under my supervision."

 "There's stores on base, I don't understand—"

 Gabriel can't hold in a groan, and the urge to pinch his nose. Sometimes he forgets what a pure soul Jack can be. "Couple of candy bars and last month's Playboy is probably not gonna cut it, Jack. I'm pretty sure the pictures Reinhardt keeps in his wallet of Ana are more interesting than what base has to offer."

 "Gabriel!" Jack scolds, ears turning pink. Gabriel shrugs. "Jesse is a C-rank for a reason. Had he joined Overwatch on good terms maybe he'd be a B, or maybe C with special privileges, but Jesse's still in the red. He has to prove himself first before I can allow special treatment."

 "He's already special—" Gabriel interjects.

 Jack talks over him without blinking. "If I award him a day off from base, when so many other commanders don't allow our hard-working soldiers to visit their families, do you know what could happen? People will ask questions."

 Gabriel doesn't try to talk back again. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed and jaw working. _Questions_ , huh. Hard to say what sort of questions Jack really fears.

 Jack sighs, evening his tone out again. "Look... Maybe, in a few months, if Jesse should prove himself an asset, then maybe we can work something out. But even then, I'll expect Jesse to fill in the required paperwork like everyone else."

 Gabriel says nothing. Nods curtly.

 Jack tries a smile. "But it's not like he's trapped here. You know how work is, you might need him off base sometime soon."

 Gabriel nods again, tugging his beanie lower over his forehead. It gets quiet when nobody tries to win the other over anymore. Jack looks at him, expecting more arguing, or to see him just get up and leave without a word. Neither of it happens. Jack wonders if Gabriel wants him to conclude the conversation.

 "I'm sorry for having to be strict," he says. He sands up, pushing a few papers around on his desk. Gabriel doesn't take the hint, he keeps himself planted in Jack's visitor chair, arms crossed and knees wide.

 "No problem," he says.

 Jack is ready to take him by his word, and tries another smile. "Can we talk about this later?" he offers. "Tonight. We can grab dinner—"

 "I need a future day of leave," Gabriel says flatly.

 "What? I just told you I can't—"

 "Not for Jesse. For me. Actually—" Gabriel brushes his hand over his facial hair. "Maybe you too, if you want to come along."

 Jack gapes, surprised, and watches as Gabriel finally gets up, nodding toward the computer. "You gonna process my request, or just stand there and look pretty?" he asks, and Jack is too thrown off by the backhanded compliment to wonder about Gabriel's grin.

* * *

 A week, and all Jesse owned was the clothes on his body and his hat. Boredom drove him to the rec rooms around base in every single free minute, as they had big televisions and computers for those unfortunate enough not to have their own. Being in a public room made the computers a lot less interesting, but still, after suffering from devastating boredom the first few evenings, Jesse came to appreciate sitting together with others and watching anything, even the news. There's always someone around, Jesse even could snag a few smokes from people, as many are curious about to who he is and why he's here and why Commander Reyes is giving him so much attention. It's easy to trade stories, and he's already making things up, but apparently people find him entertaining enough and don't mind him talking shit on his new boss.

Tonight, he's found Mason, Schroeder, Jackson and Ishimoto, and they're around one of the tables in the corners, each huddled over a handful of cards they're trying to hide from the eyes of the one next to them.

Jesse loves them: they suck at this. He is busy scooping up a few dollars worth of change and a few cigarettes into his lap. This is the beginner's table and Jesse is far from being a beginner at cardgames of any kind, but they don't need to know that. The few loose cigarettes aside, his winnings are already enough to buy a pack at one of the overpriced stores, and maybe a little something else, if the store clerk is up to bargaining.

The knowledge that he's up against people who know no better has him wanting more, but Jesse is wise enough not to overplay it. He doesn't want to test his luck, because for now, nobody is suspicious that he just walked right up to him and won the first round of Bullshit without any effort. Especially Schroeder and Ishimoto, both of whom lack a proper pokerface. He still has their respect. Jesse intends to keep it.

"I got lucky," he says, shuffling his cards into the middle of the table to the pile. "Anyone up for another round?" He would make a few obvious mistakes, show off his excitement so that they would spot his lies. Maybe win the next round after this, leave, feigning innocence, and come back a few days later for more. Maybe even play an actual game of poker.

"You start, McCree," Schroeder says, shuffling the cards and playing everyone a new hand. "Just fair, with you ripping us off like that."

 "I got lucky!" Jesse says again, cheerfully, more than happy when Ishimoto raises her hand up to light the cigarette between her lips. He leans over to her for her light when he picks up his hand. No aces, naturally, but without hesitating, Jesse pulls a four and lies. Nobody questions it, and Jesse isn't surprised.

 Schroeder's next, declaring a two-two, and Jesse doesn't bother. The first lie Jesse is sure about is Jackson's two-fours, and considering Jesse's own four, chances are that he's lying. Jesse takes a drag on the cigarette and pretends to know nothing.

 A few minutes in, when Ishimoto and Mason bulk up on Schroeder, the speakers in the rec room turn on. Jesse half-turns his head, picking up something about check-ups in the Medical Ward. A list of names is called of, and Jesse is already back to concentrating on the game when he hears his name. Jesse looks up, but the rest of the table doesn't seem to have paid attention, so Jesse decided to ignore it. The physical can wait. Jesse doesn't want to leave the game just yet.

 It's a delight, playing with the noobs: Jesse collects a few cards here and there, getting called out on his lying, but all of it is intended and planned, while the rest of the table takes the real damage. Ishimoto has so many cards she can barely hold them. Jesse waits with his opportunities to win, loses a few calculated cents here and there, and keeps an eye on his opponents. They no longer perceive him as a threat.

 Jesse stares at his current hand. He can win this round, cheat them out of five dollars so he can buy himself a pack of smokes, and then spend the rest of the night smooth-talking one of the older girls he met in the training room, see if he can't get one of them to get him something to drink. Young lad like him needs something to make the hair on his chest grow, yeah?

 He's careful with his plays, keeping an estimate score in his mind, and then starts to carefully lie his way around the group. Jesse likes these people. They can't read him for shit. He was mildly concerned when Reyes mapped him out back in the interrogation room, but right now he's feeling back to his usual self. Tricking people into giving them what he wants. Winning his second game in a row is child's play.

 "Bull _shit_!" Schroeder says, throwing her money towards him.

 "That's the name," Jesse says cheerfully. But he's aware of the looks on everyone's faces. Time to scatter. "Well, this was a delight, but always leave when wanting more, right?"

 They hoot at him, but he hasn't overstayed his welcome, that much he knows. He stows his money and three single cigarettes into his pockets and checks the time, scrunching up his face a little. He's been playing for a while, and the announcement calling for him was at least an hour or so ago. Well, they didn't call for him again, so obviously it wasn't that important. Jesse goes to the next base store and buys himself his well-earned pack of cigarettes, sweet-talking the cute store clerk to not checking his age. On his way back to his room, he makes a detour to the mess hall, which is between meals right now, and with staff running around preparing dinner, Jesse steals two muffins from a unobserved tray.

 It was a very successful day, Jesse concludes as he enters his room, mouth stuffed with stale, but delicious blueberry muffin. His room is still a mess. He's crammed armor and clothes into the closet, but there’s still paperwork everywhere. Reyes has asked him multiple times to sign it and hand it in. Jesse takes his sweet time with it, happy to have his smokes and something to snack on. Now if only he could have some bourbon and music. At least the latter he can imitate, humming to himself as he flops to his bed, picking the second muffin apart with his fingers slowly. It's an old tune, from way back when. Well, only a couple weeks ago. He'd order some pound cake from the cafe, fight his way back to his seat while other Deadlock gang members screamed for more coffee or booze, usually both. The music on the Jukebox was never too good, but between the crowd, the heat and the stench of everyone together, it didn't really matter. Jesse would play cards with them, just like he did here, only that Mike would call him out on his bullshit with a fist to his nose. Nothing compared to here, where the worse he had to look forward to was getting called a liar. Back in Deadlock, fights were common. Jesse didn't mind, although he doesn't miss all the bruises and bloodies noses it got him. At least it was more fun than core training with Reyes.

 Huh. Two weeks, and somehow he was busy enough half the time not to think about everyone... back _home_. Or just... with the guys, anyway. Jesse isn't sure if he ever really had a home. If there was any routine to his life, it was to join, reap the benefits for as long as possible, and run for the hills before it got ugly.

 His nose tingles like he's about to sneeze, but it ain't coming. Jesse rubs it with the ball of his hand, groaning. He stuffs the rest of his muffin into his mouth and chews with full cheeks. The muffin is more stale than sweet after all. He chews with a scrunched up face, getting up to wash the taste away with a gulp of water from the tab in his small bathroom. Maybe he just needs a smoke.

 His tiny room has a window. Jesse wonders idly if someone would see the smoke, but he doesn't care as he steps on his bed to heave open the window before lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply and coughing a little as he exhales. The tingle in his nose spreads into his throat and eyes.

 Deadlock wasn't home. And Deadlock wasn't family. It was just another group, just a means for food, a blanket, and enough cash for him to think he'd made it. So, yeah. No big deal that everyone scattered when Overwatch broke down doors. Nah, he can't blame 'em. He can't blame them that they let him get caught, leave Jesse for dead... prison? He'd done the same, probably...

 Except he didn't. He stayed behind, trying to buy them time to get away.

 All these years working for them. Moving cargo under Aleksander's supervision, shooting cans with Steven, learning how to hack a computer with Quinn's help. Shooting cops, hurling dynamite without looking where it might land. Has he ever killed civilians? Probably.

The smoke hits his lungs the wrong way. Jesse coughs. He loses the cigarette from his fingers and has half the mind to kick it away from the bed to the floor before he burns the fucking facility down. He has a feeling twenty push-ups wouldn't be cutting it if he did. He wonders if Reyes would ever hit him, like his Pa did when he drank—

 The coughing brings tears to his eyes. His throat is tight and makes breathing hard. He's terrified when a desperate gulp for air sounds like a sob, and he paws at the tears streaming down his face, and he sits down on the bed, hugging his pillow against his face so nobody will see his tears, hear him cry.

 But nobody is there. Nobody is there to comfort him, to mind the smoldering cigarette on the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The authors were busy trying to get Skullyatta in their lootboxes... We're hoping to get back to a more regular schedule again.
> 
> Hey, if you can spare a buck or two, [support us](https://ko-fi.com/A801AXT)?


	5. Hardly working

It's cold outside. Jesse already dreads going out to the field for endless laps in thin, misty rain for his training, so when Gabriel tells him there’s been a change in the schedule, Jesse doesn't complain. He stifles a yawn as he follows his boss through the empty hallways. Like always, it's awfully early. Jesse didn't get much sleep last night. His eyes feel dry and irritated, and he blinks a few times when Gabriel speaks to him.

"How do you like your training so far?"

Jesse stifles another yawn, badly concealing it behind his hand. "'s just peachy, boss."

Gabriel snorts without looking at him. "Don't fucking lie to me, McCree. I know you're bored out of your mind."

Jesse eyes the signs painted on the walls, telling people which way they're going. Gabriel enters the hallway to the shooting range.

Jesse feels himself perk up as his boss opens the door for them and switches on the light.  Gabriel walks over to one of the computers, starts it up and running with a few commands. "I had a nice chat with the Strike Commander," he says. A few door open, and behind the range, training bots line up. "And we agreed that you could do with some additional practice, so you'll be shooting bots every Wednesday from now on. Friday too, if my own schedule allows it." 

He walks over to one of the doors that slid open. Jesse can see there's two guard bots  inside. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"So I'll be learnin' how to handle that pulse rifle, eh?" he says, feeling weirdly nervous. The memory of being watched how he tried—and failed—to use it is a little too fresh on his mind. It's true that he did succeed to impress some suits, in the end, but... It's still not really Jesse's favorite memory of Overwatch so far.

He's not sure what is, really.

"That'd be great, actually," Gabriel says from inside the armory. "Standard weapon training should be a part of your schedule. But, well. Between us, I think the Strike Commander prefers them just a little too much." Gabriel stares ahead for a moment. "I see greater value in someone who really knows how to handle a weapon of their choice, instead of looking uniform. Get over here."

Jesse eyes the armed guarding bots cautiously and carefully steps closer, making sure that Gabriel is between them and himself, just in case. "Does that mean I'll get my revolver back?" he asks, eyeing the large case that Gabriel has gotten out of storage. It's smooth and matte black and carries the Blackwatch logo. It's too big for Jesse's gun, and Jesse can see the muscles in Gabriel's arms work as he sets the case down.

"Eventually," Gabriel tells him, opening the locks on the case and snapping the clasps open with his thumbs. Jesse stands on his tiptoes to watch over Gabriel's shoulder as he lifts the lid up.

Inside the case, embedded in red velvet that does _not_ look like part of the uniform, are two shotguns. They're huge, heavy, their chrome shiny from years of use, scorch marks along the nuzzle despite how well-cared for they look.

"These babies destroyed their fair share of Bastion units in the Crisis," Gabriel tells him, almost fondly.

"These are yours?" Jesse asks. He extends a hand, but then stops himself. "Can I...?"

"Go ahead."

Jesse picks one of the shotguns up, carefully holding it in both hands, feeling the weight and measuring how much destruction they might bring. He tries to imagine what a Bastion unit looks like after being hit by this up close. So much power, welded by steel into something to carry around. The standard pulse rifle Jesse expected is so... tame, compared to this. The rifle suddenly seems more like a tool; this, however, is wrath.

"Wow," he mutters, stroking a finger along the length of it.

"Go and try it," Gabriel tells him, nodding towards the lined up training bots in the range.

Jesse follows his gaze with his own and measures the distance. "Uh, that's like—" He squints. Fifty meters? I'll never hit a target with this."

"Didn't say to hit anything, did I? I can tell you're curious to try. And I'm saying go ahead and try it."

Jesse eyes Reyes carefully and wonders if this is a test and, if so, what the right thing to do is. But he _is_ curious, so he nods, leaving with the shotgun for the range. Even after a few steps he notices how heavy the damn shotgun is. Not as bad as the rifle, but Jesse still keeps both hands steady on it as he positions himself. He always felt so proud of his big revolver, but compared to this monster, it feels like nothing.

"Recoil's probably bad?" he asks as he sucks on his teeth as he takes aim.

"A little," Gabriel says smugly behind him.

Jesse's lips part in a grin despite himself as he pulls the trigger. The shock rattles through him like an earthquake, starting at his fingertips and settling deep within his spine. Jesse has to sidestep to catch his balance, heat blooming in his cheeks. "Well, fuck me."

"Language, kid," Gabriel scolds, but it doesn't sound like a threat.

Jesse turns around, lowering the shotgun. "Will I, uhm, be expected to be handlin' one of these, or..."

Gabriel snorts again and steps close, taking the gun from Jesse's hand. "Don't worry," he says, resting the barrel against his shoulder. "These are mine. Custom-made by Lindholm. Bitch to reload. He's tryina work on that. But yeah, no. You won't be seeing them in your hands unless I tell you to."

"In that case, uh, thanks, boss." Jesse rubs his nose. He smells of gunpowder. "So the other one's backup? Should one get lost or somethin'?"

"Huh?" Gabriel looks at him in confusion, then bursts out into short, barking laughter. "What, no. I use both of 'em."

Jesse purses his lips, knits his brows, thinking he misheard. "Ya do what now?"

Gabriel grins as he turns to the armory to get his other shotgun. "Soldier Enhancement Program mean anything to you?"

"Yeah, that was..." Jesse shrugs a little. "I grew up hearing about it, but I thought that was, like... a PR kinda thing, not real. Something to give humanity hope or some shit."

"Yeah well..." Gabriel got his shotgun and lines himself up at the range, arms raising the guns until they're looking like perfectly natural extensions of his body. He's standing spread-legged, center of gravity shoved against the recoil he expects from the weapons. "We didn't want the omics to know too much, I guess. Cover your ears." 

Jesse raises his hands up without questioning. The boom of the shotgun barrels echoes through his hands. Jesse thinks he feels the vibrations even in his bones. He watches, not even looking if Gabriel is hitting anything, completely baffled by how Gabriel maintains his form, catching the recoil in his arms, and evening it out by shooting one shotgun at a time. Shotgun barrels clatter to the floor, and Gabriel only stops when all are spent. 

The silence after the thunder of Gabriel's weapons is almost agonizing. Jesse takes his hands off his ears, laughing over the ringing he hears. "That explains a lot!"

Gabriel chuckles softly, lowering his arms. "Enhancement doesn't cover your ass if you're out of shape," he tells Jesse. "And _you_ are."

"Aw, _jefe_ ," Jesse mutters. "I thought we had a moment there." 

"Now you're just talking out of your ass," Gabriel comments dryly, but there's a smirk in the corner of his mouth as he stows the shotguns away into their case. Jesse watches, curious what will happen next when Gabriel opens another locked cabinet and pulls out a small box of ammo that looks excitingly familiar. "Know what this is?" Gabriel asks him.

"Yessir," Jesse says, shifting his weight from the heel to his toes. "Good ol' .357 ammo, sir. Very familiar with the kind."

"That's good, because this is your own supply now." Gabriel points to the locked cabinet he retrieved the box from. "Any mission where we need you in action, some of these will be waiting for you. Should you run low, all you have to do is ask. Well, it comes with the paperwork, of course. We're still government-funded."

And then he hands Jesse Peacemaker. Jesse doesn't even question where it's so suddenly coming from, he's just so damn excited. The barrels are empty, and Gabriel holds the box of ammo for him to take. Jesse can't help but grin when he fills the chamber, giving it a twirl.

Jesse takes a step to the side—not exactly back into the range, but close enough—and aims for one of the training bots on the other side. He shoots, and there's a distant "ow, jeez" from the training bot, the impact pushing it back and wires sizzling around the damage that another bot quickly comes to take care of.

It's almost dead center, and if the bot was just a few meters closer, it wouldn't have had the opportunity to be complaining. Gabriel has his arms crossed over his chest and nods a little in silent approval. No need to over excite the kid though, so all he says out loud is, "this is me putting my hand in the fire for you, McCree, so I expect you to keep to your schedule while i'm gone." 

"Wait, what?" Jesse spins around, holding on to the gun and his hat as if someone might take them away again. "Where ya goin'?

"Small break," Gabriel grunts. " _Familia_. I'll be leaving Saturday and won't be back until Monday night, most likely."

"Oh, huh," Jesse mutters. He looks at Peacekeeper, how nice and shiny it looks. Someone took care of the gun, it looks well-oiled and clean. Lindholm, most likely, Jesse thinks distantly, feeling the familiar weight and shape in his hands. He looks over to the open cabinet full of ammunition. He recognizes the worn out paper boxes they had at Deadlock, but also shiny new boxes that look fresh from the factory. It's _so much_. Is this what it's like when you don't have to steal? Jesse always thought no amount of weapons could surprise him anymore. What's in the rest of these locked cabinets?

Gabriel is still looking at him, expecting an answer. Jesse looks him in the eye and nods. "Yessir," he says. "Seems enough time to master a proper push-up."  


* * *

It's not that Angela has long fingernails or anything. She keeps them clipped short. "With the gloves, fingernails only get in the way," she told Jesse when he asked. 

But still, her fingers typing away at the keyboard is so fascinating. Her nails click and tick away on the plastic with a hasty, but weirdly soothing rhythm.

Jesse sits across from her desk, on a chair usually reserved for patients—she has her own little office, examination chair, potted plants on the window sill, stethoscope and all—and watches her write. Although it's Sunday, this is work, she told him, not elaborating what 'work' actually _means_.

He plays with a pencil as he lets his gaze drift from her messy ponytail to her impeccable lab coat to her tidy desk and beyond.

"I cannot understand how you can be so carefree," she says, her accent a bit thicker in her silent exasperation. "Putting off your work like you do."

Jesse laughs a little, tossing the pencil away (only to watch Angela pick it up gingerly and put it back into her pen organizer) and leaning back in the chair until it creaks. "I'm an expert at procrastination," he tells her. What he doesn't tell her is that he's actually nervous, and came here to hope she might help against that. He told Gabriel he would train, and he _meant_ it. But somehow he through the entire morning, and when he finally left his bed he thought to visit Angela, thinking maybe it would help, but it doesn't. It's only getting later and he's getting nothing done.

Angela purses her lips. She doesn't even look away from the screen as her lips form just the right shape, like a heart, and Jesse can see the shiny, wet inner side of her lips. "Gabriel will not be happy about this."

Jesse sighs, but only inwardly. No reason to let her in on how he feels. "I know," he says, looking around. They're alone in her office, but the door is slightly ajar. Still, it's Sunday afternoon. "You're right."

"Of course I am, Jesse." This time, she looks at him past the iridescent screen, with half a smile. "I only mean well." 

"I should do my homework right now."

The half-smile becomes an actual smile and Angela stops typing for a moment to clasp her hands together. "That's the spirit!"

"Right now!"

"That's great—Jesse, what are you doing?" He finally has all of her attention as he jumps off the chair and shoots her a wide grin, pushing the chair aside to make room to get down on his knees. Angela gets off her chair to watch. "Jesse, _what_ are you doing?"

"Keep count for me, would ya?" he tells her. "In case I lose count."

She blushes. As much as Jesse hates push-ups, it's already worth it. He has to look away for his first push-up, but he can hear her anyway: "One." He's glad he has a moment of staring at the floor before he lifts himself up and looks up to shoot her a wink. Angela frowns, but smiles, tucking her bangs behind her ear. "Two," she says, and Jesse lowers himself back to the floor.

Well, this is a nice turn of events, he thinks. Maybe Reyes should have her around for his training, then they'd actually get something done. To be fair, he's a little surprised himself; he remembers push-ups being harder. Reyes barking orders at him to get in shape must've been good for something.  He's not even doing those damned girly push-ups right now.

But by the time he hears Angela pronounce a _twelve_ , his arms begin to burn. And his stomach.Even his thighs are shaking. But Angela is watching, and _thirteen_ is nothing. _Fourteen._ No, he has to keep going. Thirty is probably enough to impress her, he figures, and he can do it. Twenty comes and goes. Jesse is straining himself not to pant, and when he lifts himself up on shaking arms, he looks up for a moment. Angela looks him dead in the eye.

"Now, don't lose count," he says. He's impressed with how even his voice sounds. "We still got a ways to go."

She laughs softy, counting the _twenty-two_ at him. Her voice is so soft, and a little singsongy. He can tell she's impressed. Right when she's about to announce twenty-five, the loudspeaker crackles to life, and the by now familiar voice of Morrison's secretary calls him to the Strike Commander's office.

"Oh, you should probably hurry," Angela says, interrupting her counting. "When Jack wants to see you, it's got to be important."

Jesse lays flat on the floor, feeling defeated. No, this cannot be. It's Sunday! What can possibly be so important?

"Jesse, are you okay?" Angela asks, crouching down to him.

Jesse waves a hand at her, hoping she won't see the shaking in his arms. "'s fine," he says as he lifts himself up. "Alright beautiful, you keep that number in mind. I'll be back and we'll double the score, yeah?"

She chuckles a little and lifts herself up to go and sit back behind the desk. "Alright, Jesse," she says as she gently folds her hands over her keyboard. "Don't make Jack wait."

"I'd never," he says, pushing his hair from his sweaty forehead. "See you around?"

"Yeah, sure."

She smiles, but when Jesse turns back to glance at her when he leaves, she's back at her work and doesn't look up.

Jesse makes sure to turn a corner before resting against a wall and letting out a loud groan, massaging his thighs and arms. He's sweaty, his chest feels tight with the need for air, everything is stinging and aching. So much for progress.

He has to take a moment to regain his composure, for his heart rate to return to normal and his face to feel normal again. The trek to the Strike Commander's office feels long and lonely. He doesn't see many people around in the hallways. Most of them are probably enjoying a day off, or are on duty somewhere else. The base would be a great place for a post-apocalyptic setting, Jesse thinks. So many long hallways and dead ends. Does the Omnic Crisis count as an apocalypse? Probably. 

Lost in his thoughts, he makes it through the long hallway with the flags at the sides, knocking before he enters the secretary's office. "Jesse McCree, ma'am," he says to clarify when she looks at him with confusion. "I was called here?" 

"Ah! Well, you took your sweet time, didn't you? The Strike Commander is waiting for you." She points at the door. "Through there."

She unlocks the door for him, and as Jesse enters Jack's office, he realizes that he's never been here. In front, yes. Heard of the space, sure. Gabriel goes and comes from here all the time, seeing Jesse off or telling him to wait outside. Now, Jesse is inside the sanctum for the first time. It's impressive. It looks like in the movies. Jack looks tiny behind his desk, which is quite the task, considering what a mountain of a man he is. Jesse is vaguely aware that he's still growing, but... Well, super soldiers and all, right? He'll never be like that.

Jack's smile is soft when he gets up to greet Jesse with a firm handshake (Reyes never does this, his hands rarely leave the pockets of his hoodie at all) and asks Jesse to sit down in front of the desk. Jesse does as ask and can't help but feel like he's being interviewed.

"Enjoying your Sunday, I hope?" Jack asks, pushing a few papers aside on his desk and making Jesse feel only worse.

"So far," Jesse replies carefully.

Jack smiles at him but seems to realize Jesse isn't in the mood for small talk. "Well, Jesse," he starts, looking down for a moment, his hands clasped patiently on his desk, then meets Jesse's gaze again. The smile is gone. "You've been with us for a while now."

Jesse only nods, fighting the urge to sit on his hands nervously. He never realized how threatening Morrison can seem without Reyes there to take the edge off.

"So, Jesse, I know you haven't covered any politics with Reyes yet, but do you know how far Overwatch extends?"

Jesse nods to himself. So a test it is, eh? Morrison wants to know if Reyes' hard work pays off. It's true, they haven't discussed any politics yet, Jesse hasn't been on a mission yet, it's only training, training, training. And Reyes is hardly talkative. Jesse knows basically nothing. He sniffs. "Well, it's a global thing, right? Uh... founded by the UN and all."

"Yes, exactly. We're an international institution—which is why we employ people from the US, but as you know, we have people from abroad here, Wilhelm and a few other Crusaders most notably maybe, but then there's also Captain Amari, Liao—" He stops himself. "It's our duty to extend a hand throughout the planet and be where we're needed when people need help. Maybe beyond our planet one day? Either way." He looks down at the documents for a moment, picking a file. "Amari told me you met Wilhelm?"

Jesse holds his breath. "Not so much 'met' as 'being towered by', sir."

"Yes, I think that puts it quite well. He's... well, he's something." Jack chuckles a little, easing Jesse's rising anxiety. "Things in Europe, central Europe especially, are a bit of delicate situation currently, and Wilhelm and his division of Overwatch have come across something that we think might be a threat to German and European safety. For now, we're on high alert, anticipating a terrorist attack, centered around the omnic movement."

"I'm... sorry to hear that?" Jesse tries carefully when Jack pauses again, staring him down. "Sir, why are you telling me this? What does this have to do with me?"

Jack takes a deep breath, rubbing at one of his ears. "Reyes tells me you've been, ah, sitting on your ass these past weeks, that's... his words, not mine." He smiles thinly before continuing. "And we'll need Blackwatch in Europe to extract information. I realize you're not finished with your training, I want to take you with me to Germany, so you can actually see what kind of work will be expected of you in the future."

Jesse stares at the Strike Commander and feels sweat beginning to build on his forehead again. He isn't sure what to say. Terrorism, omnics—that all sounds a little bit too big to process on the spot. Germany? Where even _is_ that?

"Don't worry too much," Jack interrupts his thoughts. "We'll send a duffel bag to your room, along with your passport and all the necessary paperwork, a card with a little spending allowance, something to help you through the ride over there... Commander Reyes will of course meet us there." Jack checks the time on the holo screen. "We're leaving at eighteen-hundred sharp, so that gives you... a little less than three hours to prepare." He looks at Jesse again and smiles his thin, polite public smile. "That is all, Jesse."

Jesse nods and lifts himself out of the seat. The world is spinning around him. He shouldn't have tried showing off.  


* * *

However long it takes an economy flight to get from the southwestern US to central Europe, this was several hours shorter. But Jesse is still drained from sitting long hours in a seat, too close to other agents for comfort even in the spacious carriers Overwatch owns. Jesse is too tired and jet-lagged to pay much attention to what's going on around them when they finally land, he just clings to his duffle bag and hides a yawn behind it, trotting out of the carrier behind the others, everyone trailing behind the Strike Commander. If Morrison is tired, he doesn't let it show.

Germany is cold, much colder than Jesse is used to, and dark, and rainy. Jesse thinks what perfect weather it is to cuddle up with a warm blanket and pillow and sleep forever. The agents stand in a row, Jesse the only one who's falling out of attention when Morrison tells them about this base, the classified location, and that they're not to speak about anything that is going on around here. Morrison turns to Jesse, who snaps back at attention belatedly, and sharply tells him to do as he's told until his commander picks him up. 

They're ushered inside and finally out of the rain, into a waiting room. Jesse collapses on a chair, trying to make his duffle bag an impromptu pillow, and get some shut-eye. But people are talking in hushed voices, and then a door slams open, and a loud voice booms, "Jack! So _good_ to finally see you! I was thinking you didn’t want to be a part of this, my friend!" And Jesse knows that with Reinhardt near, he's not getting any sleep soon.

He wonders if Reinhardt knows the concept of an indoor voice at all, because he can hear every word of what he's talking to Jack about. He learns that there was a bomb threat at Düsseldorf airport, and during peak traffic hours. Reinhardt and his division dropped in on the scene and managed to maintain the situation, resulting in the capture of one of the suspected terrorists. Besides a few minor injuries, there were no casualties, so Overwatch managed to save the day, for now. A plane retained damage from an explosion, but there was nobody harmed, thanks to Reinhardt's intervention. A second bomb was safely dismantled by a bomb-detonating bot, while a third failed to detonate and was currently being looked at by professionals.

"Good job," Jack says. "You've handled the situation exceedingly well, Reinhardt. I'm very proud."

" _Nicht doch_ ," Reinhard booms, clapping his hand on Jack's shoulder. "It's my job, is it not? I'm happy to serve!" And then there is a short pause, and Jesse ducks his head deeper against his duffle bag.

"Why is the kid here?" Reinhardt asks Jack, in what Jesse supposes is his secretive voice.

"I'll send him in with Gabe," Jack answers back, softly.

"Ah. Do you not think that might be, ah, how do you Americans say, rocket science?"

"It's going to be his job, Reinhardt. This is going to be a very good learning opportunity. Speaking of which, any news on when Gabe will arrive?"

"Not before breakfast, I assume. Enough time for you to get some rest."

"I don't need it," Jack answers, and then turns around. "McCree!"

Jesse sits up as if he wasn't eavesdropping on the conversation. "Yessir?"

"Over here, McCree," Morrison commands, pointing with his chin, and Jesse hurries to shuffle over and stand at attention before him. "You have a few hours before your CO arrives, nevertheless I'm gonna brief you real quick on your work here. Once Reyes arrives, I expect you to follow his lead. You are a Blackwatch member, and it is expected of you to act like one. It is your order to help lead the interrogation of a suspect and gain delicate information that might be crucial for the future. Who does he work for, what's going on, will there be other attacks, you get the idea."

Jesse feels his palms grow moist. "Is this my job, sir?" he dares to ask. Besides waving a knife in front of a gas station person who was bound and gagged, he never had to do much to get people to talk.

Reinhardt guffaws and claps his hand on Jesse's shoulder, almost throwing him to the floor with the brute force, but Jesse stands, barely. "Don't worry, my friend! This is a team effort. A little too much to expect from a single man, right?"

"Right," Jesse mutters.

"Of course Reyes will be doing the interrogation," Jack offers. "But you will be playing a key role. You'll be there with him. Understand?"

"Yessir," Jesse says. He looks at Reinhardt, whose steady hand is still on his shoulder. His presence is weirdly reassuring. Weird to think that only a little while ago, Jesse was scared shitless of this man. Now, thinking he protected several civilians from an explosion, Jesse can't imagine a safer place, and would rather not leave his side.

"Good job, uh, protecting all these people, Reinhardt," he says, and Reinhardt laughs and thanks him for the compliment as though lives hadn't been at stake.

They get a few hours to themselves in an impromptu common room with plank beds that remind Jesse of all the old timey movies he's watched. He tries to sleep, but knowing what he does now, what Overwatch expects of him, keeps him alert. He tries to eat a little, but has trouble even keeping only a few bites down. The hours pass quicker than he'd like them to, and when he learns that Commander Reyes has arrived, and that he's expected to meet him at the cells, Jesse wants to vomit.

He's taken deeper into the facility, into all concrete walls and too bright lights and low ceilings. Everything is ghastly low-key and white, and Reyes' bulking shape, dressed all in black, sticks out in sharp contrast. He's standing in front of a two-way mirror, shoulders tensed and drawn up like he's cold, black leather gloves on his hands and hood drawn over the beanie. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, holding a cup of cheap takeaway coffee that Jesse recognizes as a brand from the airport. He says nothing to greet Jesse, only nods.

It's weird, being on this side of the mirror: Jesse can see the the suspect on the other side, stripped of anything that could be dangerous, handcuffed. Jesse remembers too well what that situation feels like.

Behind them, the door opens, and Morrison enters the room, followed by two Overwatch soldiers and two women in smart suits. Jesse half-expects the two commanders to start their weirdly familiar behavior, but both of them are tense and tired and professional as they talk. Jesse only half-listens, still looking at the suspect on the other side of the mirror. It's just a guy like any other on the world. He could have been one of them. Or of Deadlock. Or just another dude on the subway. To think he should be a terrorist...

Jesse snaps out of it when he hears one of the women talk in German. The other seems to be an interpreter. There's suddenly talk of the country's parameters what is and isn't appropriate when extracting information. Jack is diplomatic, telling the women not to worry. Gabriel says nothing, just empties his coffee and throws the empty cup into a trashcan. The German woman is talking quickly and harsh, her interpreter talking over her demands in a softer, more soothing tone. Her accent sounds a little like Angela's, Jesse thinks. He tries to keep up, but many of the words the woman uses are too big for him. That reminds him of Angela, too. But eventually, they come to an agreement, and the women leave. Morrison seems to relax a little, while Gabriel only gets more glum by the second.

"Question?" Jesse mutters, and while Reyes only stares at him, Morrison gives an encouraging nod. "What, uhm... What does all of this mean? What am I doing here, exactly?"

"Well, McCree, Reyes' job here is to extract as much information as he can from our suspect. However, as terrorist attacks go, time is of the essence. And there are things certain countries will not condone. Think... ah, think torture, for example. A worst case scenario, of course, even in the US, where we allow more... “specialized interrogation techniques,” compared to Europe."

"Jack's trying to say that we can't fucking go and break the guy's legs until we really _really_ think we got to," Reyes interrupts sharply. "And even then we gotta make puppy eyes and say 'pretty please'."

" _Gabe_ ," Morrison chides, sighing. He turns back to Jesse. "Our interrogations need at least one witness to ensure that nothing awry went on."

"Is that... why you're here?" Jesse asks, and doesn't miss how Reyes snorts softly.

Jack's smile is thin and fading. "No," he answers. "I will not have any part of this. It would look very unprofessional if I was involved in interrogations of any kind. No, this is Blackwatch territory. Whatever information you retrieve will later be put into a report that I get to read and sign, and that's it."

"So, uh... we're getting our hands dirty while you look pr—"

" _McCree_ ," Reyes scold sharply, and Jesse clasps his mouth shut.

Jack doesn't smile anymore. He hands Jesse a file and a holopad. "It's your job to keep time, make sure nothing happens during recording, that nothing is left out, and keep things in control for the suspect and Reyes. It's a responsible job, McCree. We're counting on you."

"How long will this take?" Jesse asks. Taking the file reminds him of taking a test in school. He vaguely remembers thinking it had to be the worst feeling on earth. It wasn't. This is a thousand times worse.

Reyes shrugs. "Depends on who's better; that guy or me."

Jack shakes his head a little before standing at attention and saluting Reyes before grabbing him by the shoulder, thumb digging into the soft fabric of Reyes' hoodie. "Good luck," he mutters, and then he's gone. It's only Jesse and Reyes remaining.

"Showtime," Gabriel mutters, pushing back the hood and shouldering open the door to their suspect.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reinhadt is love. Reinhardt is life. 
> 
> Kudos to us for publishing this today _although_ it's Dishonored 2 release day!
> 
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	6. Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit

 Jesse tries to figure out what time it is back home, but his brain refuses to do the job. It's probably for the better, too, since he really ought not to be lost in thought, regardless of how many things are on his mind.

It's been three hours since Gabriel and Jesse entered the interrogation room. Three hours of nothing. Gabriel might as well try to have a conversation with the wall. Jesse thought he did a good job bullshitting everyone back when he was being interrogated, but this guy won't even give Gabriel the time. 

Three hours, and for the first time, Gabriel backs up. He makes eye contact with Jesse for the first time, gesturing towards the door. They leave the room together. Gabriel says nothing about their progress—or lack thereof—so Jesse asks, "I gotta pee."

"Bathroom break permitted," Gabriel grunts. He looks over and their eyes meet. "You alright, kid?" he asks.

Jesse nods a little. The movement ends in a shrug. Gabriel digs into the pockets of his fatigues and hands him a bit of foreign change. "Get something to eat," he says. "There's a vending machine by the restrooms. I'll have to make a few calls, you get twenty minutes."

"Sir," Jesse mutters, and they depart in different directions.

So goes Jesse's thoughts: He's not sure what to think of everything he's learned the past few hours. So much has happened that Jesse has a hard time picking up. It seems a lifetime ago that he was doing push-ups to impress Angela.

The holopad that the Strike Commander gave him has all the important details on their arrested suspect, who they've left behind in the interrogation room to brood. One Maximilian Stähler, German born. A home-grown terrorist. He's a student at the University of Cologne, which apparently isn't too far from Düsseldorf, where they're at. He's a few years older than Jesse; tall, blond, with piercing grey eyes behind a slim pair of glasses. Looks well-fed and groomed, although the past few days in detainment do show. Part of the educated top layer of society. How did such a man end up being a terrorist? Jesse remembers bombing places and robbing banks and holding hostages. Their goals were always pretty clear-cut: get more money, or get more things to sell to get more money. What would a man like this want? What is going on in the world after they came out of a war like the Omnic Crisis? 

It's been days since the heist. Maximilian had enough time to prepare himself for getting interrogated. Despite it being two against one, they don't have any advantage. People going as far as planting bombs at airports are usually very devoted to what they're doing. Jesse wonders what Gabriel will do.

Jesse finds the restroom empty. Jesse is thankful for it, locking himself into the last stall for just the illusion of privacy. He's exhausted, although he barely did anything: he spent the last few hours staring at the screen, trying to ignore any snide remarks that were directed at him. They stung, which surprised Jesse. He has no idea how Reyes manages to keep up with that, and for so long.

This is a long stretch from what Jesse saw when Reyes was interrogating him. This is nothing alike. And thinking about it, Jesse realizes how little of a threat he actually was to Overwatch. Jesse thought he was such a big deal, but he isn't. He really isn't. Reyes treating Jesse like he did back then—that was Reyes knowing Jesse would do exactly as he wanted. Reyes treating Stähler, that's something completely different. No feet on the table, no shared smokes. Reyes is cold, calculated professionalism.

Reyes talks about the incident without his face even so much as wavering. Mentions how nobody got killed, that a few concussions and burns were among the worst injuries. Nothing nanites can't heal in a few minutes. It gets him no reaction. Reyes brings up Reinhardt, the man that dragged Stähler's ass out of the airport and right into his cell. Reyes talks about the bomb that failed to detonate. Mentions something about how whoever programmed it better be good, because he knows people who can take it apart and trace it back to the computer it was designed on.

Nothing got him a reaction. None at all.

A clock in the hallway tells Jesse it's almost noon. He hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours. The exhaustion is close to killing him. With Reyes' money, he gets himself two chocolate bars and cheap coffee. He can't imagine Reyes got any sleep either. He saves one of the chocolate bars for him as he makes his way back to the interrogation room, surprised to find Reyes already waiting for him.

"Am I late?" Jesse asks, hastily downing the last bits of disgusting vending machine coffee.

Reyes shakes his head. "You're fine," he tells Jesse, and then moves to close the door so they're alone. 

Jesse watches. "What are you going to do now, boss?" he asks. 

Reyes keeps his hand on the handle of the door. "The kid is homegrown," he says. He sounds tired. "Has been around terrorism circles for a while apparently, but he's no soldier. Never been to a war or nothing." Reyes rubs his hand over his temple. "Few broken fingers should do the job." He lowers his hand. He stares Jesse in the eyes. "If you're willing to let that happen."

"Me?" Jesse mutters, staring at the man sitting in the small room behind the mirror. Again, it's like looking at himself only a few weeks ago. Was breaking fingers ever an option for him, had he put up more of a fight? Would Morrison have asked Reyes to harm him? Stähler is older than him. Reyes called him a kid nevertheless. What is Jesse to him? Even less? Are his fingers intact because he’s a _child_?

Jesse wants to ask all these things, but is too afraid to. His boss looks tired. He hasn't slept, he was supposed to be on vacation with his family.

Jesse has a job to do.  

"How is that my decision?" he asks, staring Reyes in the eyes. He's trying to seem unfazed. Professional. Mature?

"It's two of us for a reason," Reyes says. "Our reports have to say the exact same thing. If you pull out, I can't push the kid... It'll be an issue of how exactly those fingers got broken and why. I'll get my ass kicked something awful, and you too, probably. The UN does _not_ condone torture. We need to be in this together, if we do it. And at this point I'm sure it's the only way to get our answers."

"Isn't... what about human rights, and stuff?" Jesse asks hesitantly. Growing up in a gang, it's not like he knows exactly what those entail, but he's _pretty_ sure that they're entering illegal territory by torturing a subject to get answers, and lying about it.

Reyes doesn't answer, only looks at him with an expression Jesse can't exactly pinpoint. Something like sadness, sympathy? Pity, maybe. Jesse swallows, and the realization hits him hard: Reyes is asking him to lie for him.

"Nevermind," he mumbles quickly, then nods. "I'll do it, boss." 

Reyes acknowledges him with a grunt, and then opens the door to the interrogation room again. Jesse hurries to get back to his seat in the corner, by the computer. They halted the recording when they left earlier, and Jesse keeps his eyes glued to the screen, not daring to look at Reyes. His boss' footfall is soft as he walks over to where Stähler is sitting, coming to a stop behind him. Jesse still doesn't look. He knows Stähler is handcuffed, just like he was when he met the commanders for the first time. He pushes the thought away.

"Any new intent to talk?" Reyes asks into the stretching silence. Of course, there's no answer. Reyes continues unfazed. "If you do, maybe we'll be nice and send you to a regular prison. In Germany, that can't be so bad, right? I hear you guys have good food. It's better than what Overwatch will drag your sorry ass to if you don't open your mouth soon."

Still no answer. With his shoulders raised up high and tense, Jesse carefully looks over. Stähler is staring at him. Jesse quickly looks back to the screens.

"I don't have all day," Reyes grumbles. "I'm a patient man, but _my_ bosses? Not so much. I'm gonna need answers soon, son."

"Your attempt to patronize me is endearing," Stähler says. "I'm touched."

Soft shuffling indicates Reyes moving. Jesse hears the clinking of metal. He stares ahead.

"Final warning," Reyes announces.

Stähler's handcuffs jingle. "Nice try." He moves. "That sort of shit isn't allowed here," he states, matter-of-factly. "The German government doesn't condone violence."

Jesse peeks over, thinking back to what Reyes said before. Stähler is still staring at him. He looks so confident. More than Jesse has ever felt in all of his life.

Jesse is unfortunate enough not to look away in time. He hears the sound before he sees the realisation in Stähler's eyes; an ugly, wet pop, followed by Stähler letting out a short scream, his torso flinching heavily, feet bucking against the table as he lurches forward as if it would get him away from the pain. He yells something in German that Jesse doesn't understand, but he can guess the meaning.

"I don't work for the German government, kid," Reyes says. "You have nine more fingers to go, if you're eager."

Stähler has his head hanging above the bleak metal table. Groaning is the only answer they get. 

"Deal's still on the table," Reyes continues flatly. "You want to enter that prison with one good hand, or none?" 

Still silence, besides faint panting and whimpering. Jesse manages to press his eyes closed before the second wet pop, another garbled scream, weaker than the first. Jesse peeks one eye open, glancing over to Reyes. He is leaning against the wall behind Stähler, arms crossed, hip slightly tilted; at ease. Not like he just broke someone's fingers on purpose. How does he make it look so... easy? His face looks calm, at least Jesse thinks it does. There's no way of telling what might be on his boss' mind. It's... oddly admirable.

So this is it, Jesse thinks. Reyes' job. The dirty clean-up. 

What is Morrison doing right now? Shaking hands with people, several meters above them in the sunshine, getting congratulated for a job well done? And Reinhardt, who always makes it seem like they're doing something so noble. Amari, with her little daughter. Angela, who can't even bring herself to squash a spider.

All the while Reyes is here, telling Stähler he can make the next break worse, render his hand completely useless. Make it look like an accident, too.

Jesse looks at Stähler when he raises his head. He looks different now. Scared. His eyes are wet with tears from the pain. Jesse feels bad for him, and maybe it showed in his face, because there's a soft hiccup from Stähler and then he speaks.

"You're gonna let your partner do this? Torture me?"

Jesse shrugs, not sure if he's supposed to even answer. Stähler snarls something about human rights. Jesse stares back at the screen, their recording. "Can't see anything that looks like torture," he mutters. He doesn't look back. He hears how Stähler's hiccups become a sob. He groans something about 'no more' and 'stop'.

"Stop what?" Jesse mutters. 

All the confidence is gone, just like that. Two broken fingers, and Jesse looking the other way. Stähler is a sniveling mess now. Fog and tears collect on his slim glasses. He looks worse than Jesse did with his black eye. What did the trick? Broken fingers? The realization that he was alone? Jesse's attitude? 

"Stop with the whining," Reyes commands, his hand hitting the table. The slam cuts through the room, silencing Stähler. Jesse looks over. It's weirdly quiet now, although Jesse thinks he hears his blood rushing through his body. Reyes looks dark. He seems so tall over Stähler, who's looking at him with a pathetic, frightened stare. 

Jesse relaxes a little. It's over, isn't it? They'll get their answers.

Reyes _is_ the bad cop. But the bad cop gets all the important work done.

* * *

Jesse thought he wouldn't be able to sleep after that, but when his head finally hit his pillow, he was out cold for more than nine hours. He slept through breakfast and lunch. He slept right through the meeting Morrison and a few German officials held, and the press conference after that. In fact, he only learns of it when he wonders where everyone is after getting up. Reinhardt would be on the news, people tell him, giving interviews about the heist. Jack would shake hands, earn public approval as the savior of the nation, hold a fancy speech about being strong together and fighting for the right thing. Jesse wonders if the Strike Commander will shake Reinhardt's hand, on account of him actually being the one who got the job done. Jesse wonders of Reyes will get named at all.

The next big conference is held in a big hall in the local police department, impromptly restyled with a few fancy Overwatch banners. Jesse poked his head inside for a moment, but decided that he was in no mood to hear Morrison's big speech about their victory. So he decided to sit outside in the hallway, leafing through German police pamphlets he doesn't understand.

Everything before was so well organized, and now nobody can even tell him when they're going back to the US, let alone where Reyes is or if there's any chance to get dinner, because after two skipped meals, Jesse is hungry.

He exhales heavily when he hears footsteps and can identify them as Reyes' even before looking up.

His boss sits down next to him, parking a big black bag between his legs. "Finally up, I see," he greets.

"Yeah," Jesse says. "Yeah. I kinda passed out. Sorry."

Reyes shakes his head. "It's fine. Better you get some rest. How are you feeling?"

"Hungry," Jesse complaints with a groan, making Reyes chuckle softly. "Did you see Morrison's speech? Is he done yet?"

"No and no," Reyes answers, sinking into the small chair and stretching his legs out. "Had to finish the paperwork." He looks over to Jesse. "Read through yours, too, before sending it in. Few grammatical errors, but pretty good overall."

"I know how to tell a good story," Jesse quips, trying not to think back to the things he didn't tell. Reyes chuckles again, but doesn't comment on it either. They're silent for a moment, and they can hear the noise of the press conference behind the big doors. "Boss?" Jesse asks without looking over. 

"Hmm?" Reyes hums. 

"Permission to ask a question you won't like?" 

"As a general rule I don't like your questions, McCree," Reyes mutters, but it's without ill-will. "Granted." 

"Is that..." Jesse stops, thinks it over, pushing his hands under his thighs until he's sitting on them like a fucking third-grader who knows he'll get in trouble. "Is that your job, to make the Strike Commander look good? I haven't heard him mention you with a single word, sir."

Reyes sighs, and brings a hand up to brush it over his beard. "It's not as easy as that," he mutters. "My job is a lot of things. It's not always pretty, but someone has to do it, and _I'm_ the best at it. So I do it. That's just how it is."

"I see," Jesse mutters, peeking at his boss. He still looks like he hasn't slept much. What work was he doing between coming here on short notice, breaking a few fingers, writing paperworks, making sure the Strike Commander remains as shining and glorified as he is perceived? "I'm... sorry you got pulled away out of your vacation," Jesse says, because he can't imagine anyone else has said it. "Sucks to leave your family like that, I bet."

Reyes snorts a soft huff through his nose. "'s alright," he says. "Wasn't much of a vacation anyways." 

Jesse nods, and the silence that stretches between them becomes awkward. Jesse fidgets. "So," he says. "My first mission, huh. Pretty cool, right? I think I did pretty good."

"You didn't throw up, that's something," Gabriel says with something akin to humor, and Jesse turns his head to make a face at him, and then watches with surprise when his commander leans forward in his relaxed position to grab the bag between his feet. He lifts it up. He holds it out. "And because you didn't fuck up completely, this is for you." He stares Jesse in the eyes with calm patience.

"What... is it?" Jesse is almost afraid to ask. He can't even imagine. Is Reyes being sincere, or pranking him? The bag doesn't tell. He doesn't peek inside just yet, instead stares at Reyes, who sinks back into his chair, rubbing his head.

"Well," his commander says, "technically you get paid for the work you do. But I know life on base gets—" He pauses, looking for a word, idly gesturing with one hand. "—dry. Not a lot to do, and unless you brought some entertainment it won't take much to go insane. I mean..." He almost chuckles and shakes his head. "I remember basic, so..." 

Jesse stares down to the bag and slowly opens it. When he realizes what's inside, his eyes go wide. He pulls out the black, sleek box, stares at the shiny, modern font all over it, all the technical data summed up: A brand new mini holopad, and not a shabby one, either.

"I—" he starts to say, but his voice gives in, and Reyes is quicker, anyway. He leans over the armrest of his chair and painfully close into Jesse's personal space.

"What you have there, McCree, is called privilege," Reyes says softly, dangerously. "Now that you _have_ one, you have a damn good reason to try, and try hard. Otherwise I'll take it away, lock it away, out of reach, and once you know how nice it is to have an internet connection on base you'll feel how bad it is without one. You think you're bored out of your mind now? Well, think how bad it will be after you've gotten accustomed to all the wonderful things you can do in your free time with a handy little device like this. And I don't think—"

" _Thank you_!" Jesse spits out. "Sir." He clutches the box of the holopad until the paper gives in under his thumbs.

Gabriel nods, backs up and gets up. He stretches and leaves Jesse to his own rushing thoughts for a moment. He doesn't want to humiliate the kid, and he supposes the lesson sank in already. Now to get the kid's mind off from being humbled. Maybe find a hotel or something, let the kid stretch his legs, get him something to eat and an internet connection so he can download whatever dumb stuff he needs to be happy.

He's thinking about how to go about it when too loud footsteps announce Reinhardt, with Jack in his wake. Gabriel is surprised to see either of them. "Speech over already?" he asks.

"We snuck out," Jack admits, looking a little embarrassed. Gabriel wonders how Reinhardt can _sneak_ anywhere. It makes Reinhardt laugh, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Snuck out of his own conference!" he bellows happily.

Jack groans and rubs his forehead. "I'm not—" he begins, shrugs, lets his arms fall down. "I hate the cameras, that's all." He smiles wearily at Gabriel, who knows well enough. The cameras love Jack Morrison, but it's solely one-sided attraction. Jack looks good speaking to the masses, but someone else better have told him what to wear and what to say, otherwise the man is utterly helpless. Not that, back in the day, Gabriel was any better—he would hold speeches and press conferences, and usually it ended with some PR person apologizing for Reyes words and tone. One of the many, many reasons why Gabriel, now, works behind Jack, and not in front of him.

At least nobody tells him what to wear anymore.

"Gabe," Jack interrupts his thoughts. Gabriel looks at him, looks him in the eye, forcing whatever moroseness he felt down into the pit of his stomach instead of on the tip of his tongue.

Jack smiles thinly. He looks exhausted. He looks happy. He extends a hand, pushing it on Gabriel's shoulder, under the hood, rubbing his thumb into Gabriel's neck. Gabriel loosens his shoulders a little, lifting them up to bring Jack's hand closer to his face. "Can we have a chat?" Jack asks him, conspiratorially. "Elsewhere."

Gabriel lifts a brow, looking over to Reinhardt, then Jesse. "We'll be here for another day—"

"I know," says Jack. "We should make the most of it, right? You were supposed to be on vacation."

"You guys go!" Reinhardt demands, slapping both of them on the shoulders with almost enough force to make them collide into each other. "I will not let you live it down that you did not get dinner with me, but maybe next time! You deserve a night off."

"Thanks, Reinhardt," Jack mutters, still smiling. He looks at Gabriel expectantly, who shrugs and nods. Reinhardt waves as the two men turn around and leave.

Jesse, still sitting and clutching his new holopad with both hands, watches them. He's not sure about what to think about how they change around each other. About all the things that are so obviously unsaid. Is everyone this close?

 Above him, Reinhardt stretches and yawn. " _Ach verdammt_ ," Jesse hears him mutter, prompting him to look up with a crooked grin. 

"Feeling tired, big guy?" he asks. 

Reinhardt laughs and shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says. "I just forgot I promised Fareeha to bring sweets. I should get them right away, before I forget again."

"Uh-huh," Jesse mutters. He places his holopad back into its bag. He sees Reyes and Morrison round a corner, and then they're gone. Jesse realizes he has a brand new holopad to set up and have fun with, but the idea of eating dinner by himself feels awful. "Hey," he asks, shyly. "Can I, uhm. Can I come?" He hurriedly holds up both hands in retaliation. "Just to get off base. I promise I won't make any jokes or nothin'."

"Worry not, you're more than welcome to tag along! I'm sure a young man like yourself has a better idea of what someone like Fareeha would like that an old man like me. Grab your things!" 

"I'm—we're leaving now?!" Jesse struggles to jump to his feet and gather his bag.

"It's your first time in Germany, right?" he asks, and laughs when Jesse nods. "Well, young Jesse McCree, I'm afraid I must tell you opening hours here are rather awful compared to the US, so we must hurry! And also, if I can't bring the commanders to sit through dinner with me, you'll have to do! The beer here is actually very decent, all things considered."

"I'm seventeen—" Jesse chokes out when Reinhardt pulls him close.

"Old enough to drink beer in Germany!" Reinhardt laughs, dragging him along. "Working for an international institution has to come with a few perks, right?"

Jesse can hardly breathe with Reinhardt dragging him away with the force of a tank. But it doesn't seem so bad. He just holds on tightly to his new holopad, thinking about Reyes, about what to bring Angela to make up for leaving so suddenly. Surely she'll appreciate something from home. He'll get something to drink, and it'll be legal. How weird is that? 

Jesse's chest hurts, and he knows it's not because of Reinhardt.

But that's okay, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simply _cannot_ believe that I, fowo, from Cologne, would have Reinhardt say the beer in Düsseldorf is anything but shit. That's a peace offering right there, fellow Germans, I tell you.
> 
> Don't get me started on sausages. I have Opinions.
> 
>  
> 
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	7. Behind Closed Doors

The only thing the girl can hear is her own heartbeat and the soft whirring of the omnic's internal fans. She carefully shifts; the space around them is cramped, dark and dusty. There's dust on her hair. Dust on her face. It's in her lungs. She keeps on coughing, her small body convulsing against the omnic's chest, where he keeps her close. The space under his chin and the embrace of his arms is all the space she has.

"How long have we been here?" she asks.

The omnic looks up at pieces of concrete pressed against his headplate, barely kept up by other debris. "Hmm," he says, as if he has to think about it, and doesn't possess an internal clock. "About six hours," he says after some careful deliberation. It's been closer to nine. Nevertheless, his voice is calm and reassuring. For her sake, not his own.

The girl is silent. She's cried and screamed before but tired herself out. She's fallen asleep in between, her small head lowering against his chest in a moment of fragile peace. He keeps careful watch of her temperature and heartbeat. She's exhausted, but unharmed. A few scratches, and shock. She'll be fine.

He can't say the same for himself. A few wires snapped in his back, and his left arm hangs limp around her form. Debris crushed his legs. He'll need new ones; he imagines they're beyond repair. No matter, as long as the girl is safe.

Though, is she really? After so many hours buried under the debris of what was once their home. His stability program warned him about the shaking in the earth a second too late. Impossible to get away in time. Now they're here, and he can't fathom how deeply buried they are. He doesn't need light to see, his visual sensors working fine even in the dark, but there is no daylight. It must be so scary for her. He wonders if her parents are alright—his family. 

"Hey," she interrupts his thoughts, and he moves his head a fraction of an inch, resulting in gravel raining from above them. He quickly keeps still.

"Do you hear that?" she asks against his chest. He does.

There's clamor around them, muffled and distant. The roaring of engines, voices, footsteps echoing down to them. 

"Help is coming," he tells her, hoping it is true. Hoping the debris over them will not crush them before anyone even recognizes that they're there.

They wait.

The sounds get louder. Closer. Sometimes, dust comes in thick clouds from the ceiling, as if the layers above them finally move. If there was any more space for them, he's sure his little protegée would jump up and down. 

"Hey!" she calls, her voice thin from the dust. "We're here! Help us!"

Silence.

"We're here!" she cries. Her hands rest on the ball hinges of his shoulders. Her face is close to his. Her breath fogs the chrome of his face plate. "Please save us!"

The noise that follows screeches like a knife on chalk. She cringes and ducks down. And then, light.

A tiny bit of afternoon light. It's not much, barely more than would seep through under a closed door, but nevertheless the girl has to squint her sore eyes.

"Here, here!" she cries out, pushing her little hands against the small gap in the debris. He keeps her close although she is struggling against his grip, but he joins her calling for attention, for help.

"Don't move!" a male voice calls down to them. It seems so far away. "Don't move, we're going to get you."

She starts crying again and he has to hold on to her to keep her still. He's scared to jeopardize the fragile stability of the hole they're in. Large pieces of rubble get removed, lifted aside. Small rocks of concrete clutter onto his mechanical body, and he covers her with himself to protect her. Their little hole fills up with fresh air, and she coughs and gulps greedily.

Against the sunlight overhead, in the small window of sun above, a silhouette appears. "Hey," the voice from before says. It's warm and gentle, but exhausted. "What's your name?"

"Marina," she sobs, reaching out with her arms.

"Marina, are you okay?" he asks, and reaches in to hold her hand. She clings to his gloves for dear life, the first human contact in hours. He doesn't let go, his thumb rubs over her tiny palm soothingly.

"I'm hungry!" she says past another sob. "And cold!" 

With her eyes adjusting, Marina can see the man smile at her. "Are you stuck?" he asks, and when she shakes her head, he continues, "I'm going to lift you out, but if anything hurts, you tell me right away, okay, Marina?"

Marina nods, tears and snot streaming down her face. Her friend carefully helps her to get on her feet and leave the secure spot under his chin. When the man outside can't quite reach far enough, he helps lift her up, damaged joints creaking in protest.

Marina is lifted out of the debris. The light outside blinds her, and she can barely register the scene of destruction around her, people in blue running all over the destroyed city, impromptu tents built up to tend to the wounded. Man and omnics, as well as construction omnics, are all around, shouting, cleaning up the area, carrying injured people to safety.

The man keeps her in his arms for just a moment before a medic plucks her away from him, tending to her injuries, wrapping her into a blanket and carrying her away.

"No, no!" she yells, struggling. "I wasn't alone—don't forget my friend!" She paws at the tears on her cheeks, smearing them into dust to create a thick layer of mud. "Help him!" Against the stinging in her eyes, she sees the man that lifted her out. He's big and strong, dressed in a blue armor. All of it is covered in a thick layer of dust. "Please help him!" she says again. "He's hurt!"

The medic carrying her sits her down in one of the open tents, and while she gets cleaned up and looked after, she sees how the man in blue lifts away debris with his bare hands, as if concrete weighs nothing. She cries again when he ducks down, reaching into the hollow below, and, when he straightens up again, carries the badly damaged omnic in his arms. His legs are missing beyond the hip joints and his left arm hangs too loose. But when he sees her crying, he waves the intact hand, and the girl lets out a sob of relief.

 

* * *

Jesse doesn't like it much when Reyes starts with the technical talk. Something perimeter or else, he always has to dumb it down for Jesse afterwards anyway. "What I _mean_ , McCree," Reyes said in the briefing before his mission, "is that you'll be going in alone, because we simply cannot do this with splash damage, and you're my best shooter. You'll be covered by Lindholm's turrets."

"Ha!" Jesse mutters before he can stop himself. If Lindholm was anywhere close he's sure he'd get whacked over the head (or the knees, at least). Not that he doesn't trust the engineer's work, but having a human— _Reyes_ —watch his six would make him feel much better. 

But no, he gets send in alone. Well, he's wearing armor—big, black, Blackwatch logo and all—and has a communicator snapped to his eye and ear like Morrison's always wearing on the field. It was all so fancy and exciting at first, but now, waiting for Reyes to start the mission, Jesse would rather not be here.

He jumps when Reyes' voice crackles through the comm. "McCree, we're all set," he says. "Get in. Over."

"Alright," McCree answers, checking for the umphteenth time if Peacekeeper is loaded.

"I'll keep an eye on you via the turrets' cameras," Reyes says. "So I'll see if you mess up. _Don't_ mess up, McCree. Over and out."

"You're the best pep talker, boss," Jesse mutters. The building he's about to enter is one of the few that's still standing after the massive earthquake. It's collapsed in places, long steel wires and pillars exposed like an omnic skeleton. Jesse holds on to Peacekeeper for dear life as he enters the building through the demolished back door.

The first floor is what remains of an electronics store, and there's broken holoscreens and other devices all around, but most of it has been looted. Jesse holds his breath as he sneaks across the floor to the elevator.

"Don't fucking use the elevator," Reyes' voice growls in his ear, making Jesse jump and almost squawk. "They'll hear you coming and you'll be full of bullets before the doors even open. Go up the stairs."

"Christ, you're givin' me the palpitations here," Jesse hisses back, wiping his hand over his face. He moves for the emergency exit and the stairwell.  

"First floor clear?" Reyes prompts.

Jesse nods, then adds, "Clear." He pushes open the door to the staircase with his shoulder, quickly disappearing in the dark beyond. The eyepiece helps see in the dark, but it takes some getting used to. It's terribly silent everywhere. His job is to look for people. With the chaos after the earthquake, especially the local gangs have bundled up to take advantage of the confusion, rioting and looting. A lot of people have gone missing—young women, children. Good for ransom and whatever else. Yeah, Jesse remembers.

Meanwhile, Overwatch is doing... whatever it is they do. Look good in the pictures. Be all over the news. Get the credit. Jesse’s barely seen the Strike Commander since they landed. Everyone has their hands full with dealing with this.

Jesse almost makes it to the second floor when a piece of rubble under his boots gives out. Jesse slips, tries to catch himself on the railing, but it snaps loose and Jesse tumbles down the last few steps. The noise echoes through the staircase. Jesse hears shouting, footsteps. Many footsteps. 

"Jesus Christ!" Jesse yells as bullets come raining down the staircase before anyone is even close enough to see him. He half jumps, half falls down the stairs. Jesse pulls Peacekeeper from her holster, aims and shoots, busting someone in the kneecap. Sweet, except Jesse can count at least half a dozen heads now, and he’s only got five bullets to spare. Panicked, he reaches for cover. "Boss! Boss, enemy, uh, enemy contact or some shit, I'm being shot at! I need immediate backup!" 

"Get into cover, McCree!" Reyes barks. "Cover your ears, we're starting the turrets."

Jesse ducks close to the wall and cowers down under the railing. The turrets hardly make any noise as their lasers tear through the walls. He can hear cries and shouts, more noise. The shooting stops as everyone scrambles for cover. There's the too-familiar sound of bodies hitting hard floor. Jesse takes a peek, sees a body on the flood releasing a pool of blood, and is glad he's out of reach and in the armor. 

"Now, McCree!" Reyes orders, and although Jesse would rather piss himself, he struggles back to his feet and, taking two steps at one, sprints out from his hiding place, already fiddling with his equipment.

Overwatch handcuffs are a fancy little thing, made by Lindholm and top notch technology: not only can one pair cuff several people at once, they are target-seeking and can effectively be used in combat. Jesse barely has to aim. The moment he's in sight with the fleeing suspects, he throws, and watches as the handcuffs unleash, wrapping around wrists, latching and buckle whatever prey they found into walls and floors.

Jesse is panting. There's a few wounded on the floor that were ignored by the handcuffs, but they're not doing any running away. The man he shot with his revolver sits at the base of the stairs, holding his shattered kneecap. Jesse is quite literally the last man standing.

"McCree, motherfucking _report_ ", Reyes snarls, waking Jesse up from his adrenaline-filled high.

"Oh, uh," Jesse stammers. "Five, six, seven... seven suspects in handcuffs, five of them wounded, sir. I'm not sure if that's all of them, though."

"Stay put," Reyes orders. "We're coming."

"Copy that," Jesse answers, feeling cool about getting to say something like this and that he remembered. He cracks a chuckle, only to have one of the suspects moan and tell him to fuck off. The comm fizzles to silence, and Jesse stands between the captives and injured not really knowing what to do when he hears a noise. A dull thud from upstairs. Jesse looks up at the ceiling as if that's going to answer his questions. Frowning, he considers for a moment, and then heads towards the stairs again, carefully inching his way closer to the next floor up.

Poking his head out, he almost gets his hat shot straight off. He quickly ducks back into cover from above, a man yells, "drop your weapon! Not a step further, or I shoot!" 

Wondering what the warning is for when he's already been shot at, Jesse carefully looks over again—and sees the hostage the man is holding. An omnic, weirdly fragile looking considering that he's made from metal, held in a way that he’s become a shield to the man behind him. The man presses his gun to the side of its head with an unsteady hand.

"Alright, no shootin',” Jesse says calmly, raising his hands carefully. 

"Slide the gun over!" the man calls. "Nice an' easy!"

"Gonna put it down now," Jesse says loudly, calmly, and moves to grab Peacemaker, carefully placing her on the floor and sliding her over. She skids over the floor, spins, and comes to rest halfway between them.

Jesse’s seen hostages being used as meat-shields before, and knows how messy things can get if things went awry. Never seen an omnic being used as one, maybe because he always figured it was just fine to shoot right through them. But the Strike Commander said hostages are a priority. Even the non-human ones. Jesse has little understanding as to why—omnics can't die, can they? How human can a machine be?—and right now, he feels like his life should be a bigger priority than the omnics, no matter how... lifelike his body language is, obviously scared of the situation. But Jesse knows that all that is protecting him from certain death by a bullet through his chest is a few centimeters of armor. He'll bleed to death. The omnic will only need some parts replaced.

Reyes should be here soon, Jesse knows. Jesse shouldn't have moved, as ordered. Dammit.

"Don't try anything funny!" the man demands, stumbling forward with his hostage who's whimpering softly; a weird static sound in the otherwise strained silence that makes Jesse's ears ring. "Get down on the floor while I get your gun. No moving!"

"Such a shame, I'm a real funny guy," Jesse begins to say as he gets down on the floor slowly, face first. He already envisions himself getting shot in the head by his own gun. What color is brains, he wonders, and will he have a chance to see some of his own before it’s lights out?

There's a loud crash, and a cry. Glass shards rain upon Jesse, who has only half the mind to roll over and cover his head. He doesn't hear his voice, but the sound of shotguns is unmistakably Gabriel. There's shots as Jesse screams in shock, cowering and trying to get out of the way.

Morrison's orders were not to shoot when hostages were involved. Amari was around somewhere. Not assigned for this specifically, but... Reyes is no sniper. Far from it. Jesse's question as to what color brains are is answered when he sees the man drop to the floor with his head half missing. Shiny, giggly-looking goop that strangely reminds Jesse of flan pours from the gaping hole. It curdles on the floor, carrying small pieces of what Jesse guesses is bone in it, and looks surprisingly firm when blood begins to pool around, turning everything into a nice, slimy red. Jesse’s craving custard.

"Y'alright Jesse?" Reyes barks over to him, and Jesse raises himself up a little. Reyes is with the hostage, which is apparently unharmed, but clinging to Reyes' sleeve, shaking. Reyes makes a face at it, clearly not empathic, but Jesse finds he is. As thankful as he is that Reyes saved them, the shotguns nearly blasted his eardrums out, and it's a damn miracle the spray didn't hit either of them.

"Thank you, thank you!" the omnic keeps on stuttering, a weird static frizzle in its voice. When Reyes says nothing, Jesse finds himself muttering, "you're welcome," in his boss' turn. He fakes a grin, trying to cover up how much his own hands are shaking.

"You're a real hero, saving our asses like this, boss," he quips.

"Yeah well," Reyes grumbles, wiping his face with the bend of his arm. "We're done here, kid. Call the boys in blue, I'm out of this shithole."

Jesse nods, and watches as Reyes toes the headless body on the floor with something like annoyance before heading to the stairs to check the situation downstairs.

 

* * *

Steven McDonald is one name on a long list. Many more McDonalds on the list. And two more Stevens. Impossible to say who's family and who isn't. Some names are crossed off, some aren't. The face attached to the name is one of a small boy, with unruly hair. He looks like a little boy who's trying to keep it together because nobody else is. The gymnasium is filled with sleeping bags and field beds; people without a home having a temporary home. People huddled together around their little camps. Everybody talks in a hushed voice, and the combined murmur of hundreds of small voices comes together in an ocean of noise.

Angela forces herself not to think about it.

"Ah yes, here you are," she says instead, sing-songy. She ticks off the name from her list. Torbjörn next to her scoops soup onto a bowl and hands it over to the boy who takes it with both hands, but his gaze is on Torbjörn.

"Are you an omnic?" he asks with that bluntness that only children possess.

Angela holds her breath, getting ready to de-escalate any situation that might arise, but to her surprise, Torbjörn just puffs up, making him a centimeter or so taller (he's already standing on a step-ladder) and proudly exclaims that he's better than one. Angela laughs a little, sending little Steven along before they start a conversation about it. Besides, there's no end to the line of people who want something warm to eat.

"Thank you for helping me," Angela offers to change the subject.

"It's nothing," Torbjörn mutters. "But I'm not gonna lie to ya, I'd rather be out there with the guys. Do something useful."

"You're useful _here_ ," Angela insists with the tiredness of someone who has been saying these words over and over again. Nobody wants to tell their engineer that the reason he's not 'out there with the guys' is his poor attitude towards omnics. Even here, they're everywhere; as first responders, volunteers, and victims of the earthquake. They don't bleed, but they get hurt, and they can lose their friends and family. They don't cry, but they mourn the ones they lose. There's something that grips Angela's heart like an iron fist, seeing an omnic reduced to nothing but a damaged torso, with limbs missing and sparks flying from their circuitry, lifted from the rubble by helping hands, and their voices distorted by the damage, crying for someone they lost to the building that collapsed over them. Flesh and bones are so much more fragile than chrome and steel, and yet. And yet.

"Surprise!" someone calls, and arms grab around her waist, and Jesse McCree lifts her up and twirls her around. Angela shrieks in surprise, clinging to his arms for hold until he sets her down. Torbjörn laughs, but Angela feels embarrassment and anger flare up inside her.

"Jesse!" she scolds, righting her hair. "Please be a little more tactful. This isn't the time for jokes!"

"Sorry," he says, smiling sheepishly.

She sighs, and evens out her frown. "It's quite alright," she soothes. "Do remember to be more considerate in the future though, please. How was your day? You were out with Gabriel, right?"

"You'll be busy with many new patients!" Jesse answers, sounding proud. Angela knows he means that he helped a lot of people, but it doesn't quite sound like it. Her smile is a little strained.

"Well, thankfully I'm used to that," she answers. "Good work, then. People will miss you."

"Yeah, I—" Jesse pauses, the excitement about getting Angela's attention and praise for a job well done subsiding when the words sink in. He frowns. "What?"

"We’re leaving tonight, son," Torbjörn explains. "Our job is done, the army takes over now."

"Right," Jesse mutters. Yeah, Reyes said something along those lines. Still, Jesse didn't quite believe it. Something usually comes up, resulting in his commander getting annoyed because his plans get rescheduled and him having to work with limited resources. Usually entails Reyes storming off to bark at Morrison, Morrison saying it's beyond his control, both of them shouting at each other and storming off in different directions to get their jobs done. Save the day. More than once Jesse has seen it happen like this. It's normalcy. Ana told him it wasn't always like this. She and Reinhardt talk to him about the omnic crisis sometimes. Angela gets a small, wistful smile when she talks about how it was before. She and Jesse sat outside their impromptu tents one night, when even Jesse was too exhausted from work to try to hit on her, and they saw Reyes retreat into his tent, shoulders hunched up and face a deep scowl. The lights inside the tent were turned off quickly, and Jesse would've forgotten about the instance if not, some indeterminable time later, the figure of the Strike Commander followed into the same tent.

"I wish they would _talk_ ," Angela sighed, getting up. "Come on, we should get some rest."

Jesse was too stupefied from pieces falling into place to have a clever comeback, but both Reyes and Morrison seemed a little more at ease the next day, and work continued.

Only now, he's told they'll be leaving. Back to base. Jesse has only been in the crisis area for a week, and he knows he should feel bad for all the shit that's happened to the people here, but the week felt _good_ . Jesse wasn't bored for a second. Every moment was filled with work, and the ones that weren't he slept through like a dead man. He helped clear up the rubble as good as humanly possible, delivering loads of food, medicine, clothes, and whatever else people needed right now. In between, he got to accompany Reyes to shooting bad guys. He arrested people! So weird he'd be on _that_ end of the exchange for once. It was a shitload of work. Jesse feels it in every muscle, every bone. He's exhausted and misses sleeping in a proper bed. But he doesn't want to go _back_. Here, he's useful. Nobody knows that he's the unruly Deadlock kid, nobody doubts his capabilities, nobody gives him shit. His hands are needed. People thank him for his work, whether it's handing someone a cup of tea or saving their lives.

Even Reyes. The other day, after both of them drove a truck from A to B and unloaded it like they were mooks (well, Jesse is, but Reyes?), there was a short moment to breathe. Reyes had stretched, turned his face into the sun, the circles under his closed eyes so prominent that Jesse half thought that his commander maybe was a human after all, and without thinking, Jesse had whipped out his crushed pack of cigarettes and lighter and offered them up. Reyes had taken both with a soft thanks, and they sat in the truck and smoked, and Reyes had told him good work into the shared silence. Nothing more. No stupid name calling or pet names. Just a genuine, simple compliment. Jesse wasn't sure if he had paled or blushed.

And now it's supposed to be over? Back to his ABC's and running laps?

A little later, when Angela and Torbjörn get released from their work, all three of them walk outside the gym. Overwatch has two carriers parked in the distance; the massive ship towering over their encampment. People are packing up, tearing down the blue tents with the shiny logo left and right. They hear Reinhardt before they see him, bellowing orders over everyone's head. He and Reyes stand in front of a carrier, overseeing the pack up.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" he orders. "No standing around, we don't want to be standing on somebody's feet, there's work to be done elsewhere in the world!" But he's smiling like he always is, and Jesse realizes that the people packing up around them are probably doing it because they don't want to let him down, not because it feels like a damn order. Working under Reinhardt must be nice.

Reinhardt and Torbjörn greet each other with a long-practiced slap to back and kneecap respectively, and Reinhardt is incredible gentle with Angela's small form as he hugs her. Reyes remains leaning against the carrier with his arms crossed over his chest, making clear he's no hugger. Angela places a gentle hand on his arm anyway and smiles at him sweetly. She does that a lot; smile so sweetly at him. What's so cool about Reyes that he doesn't have? Jesse can't help but wonder. 

"We're the last ones here," Reinhardt says. "Everyone else already is back on base. I'm glad we can help, but I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again."

Jesse is surprised when he sees Reyes give a short nod. Reyes has made clear that Reinhardt gets on his nerves a lot with his upbeat attitude, and seeing them agree so easily is rare. But—well, the Strike Commander left the danger zone already. Two days ago. He had to. He's always sent off to _be_ somewhere. Jesse can't say if he actually _does_ something, other than just _be_ there, give press conferences and appear in pictures. Communicate with the UN. Jesse doesn't even know who actually _is_ the UN. 

Nobody talks about it, but at the same time, nobody treats Reyes and Morrison any different because of... well, whatever it is they're having. Jesse wants to ask, but because nobody makes a big deal out of it, he doesn't. He isn't sure whom to ask, either. He doesn't want to bring it up with Angela, thinking she might interpret him asking the wrong way. Ana and Reinhardt would be the next choice, but then again, he's seen _those_ two together as well. Jesse stares at Reinhardt and thinks of how fragile Ana looks (that she isn't fragile, she's proven when she took him one on one once, owning his ass like it was his first fight ever), and his mind goes places, and he quickly brings himself back to the conversation at hand. 

"—be going with Torbjörn," Angela is saying at his side. "Be safe. I'll see you at home." She gives him a quick hug, and her hair smells of shampoo and her skin smells faintly of fresh sweat.

Jesse doesn't get to enjoy it, because Reyes flips his hat up at the back. "Come on, _vaquero_ ," he orders, and Jesse hurries up to follow him into their carrier with a last quick wave to Angela, who laughs and waves back. 

Jesse has never been on an airplane before he joined Overwatch, and now he's taken several hour-long flights in just a few months. There's a few dozen other members, and everyone is quick to settle and take their seats. They're ready for lift-off in a little under fifteen minutes, all with Reinhardt's voice booming over them via loudspeaker. Reyes is with them in the bay, alerting the pilot when they're all settled. Many of Jesse's colleagues are reading, or listening to music, or talking to one another, but Jesse has nothing to do but sleep, so he gets as comfortable as possible and nods off, falling into shallow sleep that is filled with voices and pictures, but he doesn't wake until someone grips his shoulder, shaking him.

"We're home," he's told, and Jesse rubs his eyes and yawns, blinking up at Reyes standing over him. He looks—relieved? Happy, even?

Jesse hurries to strap himself out of his seat and grabs his duffel bag and follow everyone out of the carrier. None of them are called in to unload the carrier. Overwatch members who were left at base are more than eager to get some work done. Jesse doesn't complain. 

Neither does Gabriel, gathering his own belongings and making his way into base. No more orders for today. No more work to do. No more people bothering him. No reporters and journalists sneaking around, stalking him to get a few words for the people. No more pictures.

It was a good week, Jesse thinks, as he follows Gabriel inside. But it's good to be back. It's good to be home. 

* * *

Jesse thought he knows cheese. Turns out, he doesn't. Apparently, cheese isn't just cheese, there's... chees _es_ . And apparently you just don't put _cheese_ on macaroni, you eat it in little slices with grapes. Well, but free food is free food, so Jesse loads all sort of weird-looking cheeses onto his small plate and wonders if he can snatch a glass of champagne from one of the waiters running around— 

"Mr McCree, there you are!" a woman calls, snatching the plate from him and dragging him away from the buffet and to behind a curtain where she starts powdering his face with a brush. She's wearing in a serious-looking utility belt around her hip. Jesse didn't know utility belts came with a female version with makeup tools in it. Apparently, they do. He fidgets and squirms as she fusses about, putting makeup on him and fixing his hair. 

"About the hat—" she begins.

"The hat stays," Jesse replies sternly.

She sighs, but nods. "Keep it lifted up," she says. "Otherwise it's too much shadow on your face."

Jesse nods. If he wanted attention, he's got it now. Lots of news people around, and Overwatch members, and suits. And omnics in suits. The Strike Commander is wearing a suit, too, his chest armored by many little badges that mean he's important and great and Jesse doesn't know what any of those mean. Morrison is standing in a group of important-looking people and one of the omnics. They shake hands. Jack smiles his handsome smile that looks like no matter how bad it might be, things will be alright. It's a great smile. The people love it.

Jesse doesn't remember seeing Morrison much in the danger zone, but he has seen the news. And the news was pictures of Morrison pulling people out of decrepit buildings. People, but omnics too. He gets along so well with them you'd never think there was a war. Jesse knows what Reyes and Lindholm think of them, and say about them, too. He wonders how much Morrison thinks but doesn't say. He probably doesn't have a choice. Overwatch keeps the peace. Speaking out against a group of... people who want to be treated like everyone else would be really unethical.

When Jesse joined Overwatch, he thought being in Morrison's or Reyes' position must be awesome. So much power at their hands, and so much freedom. Now, he's not so sure about that anymore.

"Mr McCree!" someone else calls, and Jesse gets dragged away from the makeup artist and towards a screen with many logos on it, and there's Reyes, too. He's wearing a suit as well, and it's the first time Jesse has seen him wear anything that wasn't workout clothes or his Blackwatch attire. He, too, is decorated with badges, but much unlike Morrison, he just looks out of place. His head is freshly shaven and a makeup artist tried too to cover up the scars on his face and the bags under his eyes. He looks like he's wearing a pretty mask. 

Reyes casts him a glance that is entirely exasperated, and they're ushered together and surrounded by people who take pictures. It's like a thunderstorm of flashes, making Jesse blind and seeing stars at the same time. He rubs his eyes, and someone yells to _please_ save the questions for later, after the banquet. Again, Jesse gets manhandled like he's an accessory and not a real person, and Jack Morrison takes his place besides Gabriel Reyes. The two men are of the same height, and their build isn't that different, and yet, they couldn't be any more different. Morrison's light skin glows next to Reyes' darker shade, and where Morrison looks amazing in his blue suit, Reyes is left to look sickly. Morrison smiles like the saviour of the nation, Reyes is stone faced, eyes dark under his serious frown.

Commanders Morrison and Reyes, the two men who saved, and continue to save the world. Jesse really wants to know what these two talk about behind closed doors.

Jesse isn't keen on much more attention and sneaks back to the banquet, hoping he'll finally eat cheese and steal something to drink from someone who's not watching. He grabs a new plate, but by now it's harder to actually get to the food. Jesse miserably stands and waits in line.

"Psst," a potted plant next to him hisses. Jesse looks over, and chuckles when between the leafs, he can see two big brown eyes peek through to him.

"Mission report?" Jesse says inconspicuously to the plant, keeping his gaze ahead. 

"The food sucks," the plant says with Fareeha's voice. "It's not worth standing in line. They don't have any ice cream, or cakes. _Ummi_ said I can eat what I want tonight, but they only have boring stuff!" 

"I think she tricked you," Jesse says. "But I think I saw a vending machine in the hallway. Ya think we can find something good there, soldier?" 

"Yes!" Fareeha says cheerfully, abandoning her spot and taking Jesse's hand to drag him away. This time, Jesse isn't even too upset about it. 

Their plan falls flat when Ana intercepts them before they reach the hallway, and she draws Jesse into a tight hug that he can't say no to. There's something about Ana's hugs that is infinitely comforting. Something motherly, Jesse thinks, and although he has the utmost respect for the captain and would never dare to cross her, he's thankful for it. Only when Fareeha squeaks happily upon seeing Angela walking over to them is Jesse let go. 

"Did you have to bring the hat?" Angela says with a soft laugh after gently stroking through Fareeha's thick hair. Jesse grins and shrugs with one shoulder; no denying that his hat kind of ruins the suit Reyes forced him into, but there simply was no way Jesse would leave it behind. 

"How else would people know he's a cowboy?" Ana says cheerfully. She holds a champagne glass in one hand, and, upon emptying it, sees Jesse's desperate look. "Jesse," she says with a conspiratorial smile, handing him her empty glass. "Find me something new to drink, would you, my dear? Bring two glasses, if you like."

Jesse eyes Angela carefully, but remembers that the Europeans are more relaxed about these things and she's not even paying attention, talking to Fareeha instead. "Ma'am," Jesse says with a tip to his hat, taking the glass from her and going to look for a waiter with a tray of drinks. When he finds one, he manages to balance three glasses (just to be sure) in one hand, making a detour back to the banquet and stuffing as much finger food into his mouth as he can with the other. People are already giving him looks, but he doesn't care, and only when there's a noticeable shift in the masses does he look up from the food to see that the people start to huddle around the podium at the other side of the hall, where a curtain and a few chairs and a microphone are set up.

Jesse takes it as his cue to go back to the ladies, and Ana takes the glass of champagne from him with a little scolding because he took his sweet time. Considering Angela's still there, and Jesse doesn't want to make a total ass of himself, he offers her the second glass, and is a little surprised when she accepts it. Fareeha complains that she wants one too, and Ana tells her it's nothing for kids her age. She gets a champagne glass with orange juice instead, and makes a show of it sipping it with her pinky extended like a fancy lady.

"Are we late?" comes Reinhardt's voice from behind them, and when they turn around, he's there with Gabriel in tow, the latter looking equal parts frazzled and pissed off.

"It's only starting," Ana says with a slight shake of her head, offering Gabriel her glass without asking. He takes it without comment, emptying it in a single gulp. Then Ana smiles back at Reinhardt. "Don't they want you two up there?"

Gabriel snorts and says something in Spanish Jesse doesn't catch, but Ana frowns slightly and shakes her head. Jesse is about to ask when rising applause causes him to look over, and he sees that several people, including the omnic from before, take seats in the offered chairs, and with rising applause and flashlights from news people, Jack Morrison takes his stand at the microphone.

His smile looks stapled on, never wavering, and all noise dies down. Jesse tells himself to pay attention to the big important speech that's to follow, but after a few lines of welcoming friends and family, world leaders and sponsors, and begins speaking about heroes, about acts of selflessness, of having to keep fighting, Jesse has trouble focussing as he sips his champagne. Doesn't help that Reyes mutters sarcastic commentary under his breath that make Ana and Jesse chuckle and Reinhardt and Angela look guilty and embarrassed. 

Morrison is a fucking pop star in the spotlight. He tells the audience not to let Overwatch become the only face of the humanitarian act, but to consider the real heroes: the civilians and people who chose to help, who took action and collected donations and donated, handed out blankets and food, offered their homes to the homeless. To all the omnics who, in this time of crisis, helped the humans, and vice versa.

"We live in troubling times," Jack says sternly, his voice smooth and clear and deep and oh so reassuring. "The war is over, but there are still battles we have to fight. And without all of you, Overwatch couldn't do it. This is a collaborative effort, and I thank all of you." He cocks his head just a little, in something akin to cheeky boyishness. "I'd do it myself personally, but I can't imagine getting away from all my wonderful desk work. I'd hate to break a sweat."

There's laughter from the audience, and Jesse catches himself chuckling, too. Damn, he's star-struck. He's impressed. He's so used to Morrison being the bearer of bad news (usually more work, less money), forcing his patient smile on his lips around Jesse and merely tolerating his lazy attitude and crass humor, but right now the Strike Commander is humble and almost human.

"Earth to McCree," Reyes' voice rumbles behind him, followed by him flipping the back of his hat up. "Don't fall for it, kid. All of this is planned. The speech was written for him and approved by higher ups."

"Don't kill the magic, _jefe_ !" Jesse complains, righting his hat with a pout and looking back to the podium where Morrison has finished his speech and waves a few times for the photographers. The omnic in a suit takes his spot and its— _his_ —voice box crackles to life with something like a clearing of the throat. Yeah, it seems staged now. Jesse throws Reyes another frown, blaming him for ruining it, but he decided to try and pay attention to all the politics that are happening.

The omnic introduces himself as one of the representatives of the UN—he has a name and all, too, Jesse learns—and is a participator in Overwatch's funding and career. With another gesture to the people sitting behind him—Jesse wonders if he would be smiling, were he human—he thanks Morrison for his speech, for the hard work and aid in the initial disaster. He says a few words about the omnic population, how amazing it is that despite the horrible thing that happened, men and machine are able to work together. Giving hope for the future. Blah blah. Jesse zones out, managing instead to snatch himself a new glass of champagne and squatting down to Fareeha who's clearly as bored as he is. Only when Reyes smacks him over the head does he stand up again and forces himself to pay attention.

Overwatch, the omnic says, has changed a lot over the past years to accommodate the needs of the world as much as possible. The change of commander, the world-wide bases, it all is evidence of the growing international interest. Overwatch is supposed to get more freedom, and with it, more funding.

Proudly, the omnic rises a little in height, and says: "In order to assure that Overwatch will continue to meet the always growing demands, we, the UN, with generous help of several investors, have decided to develop a Headquarters in Switzerland! 

There's an audible reaction of the audience, flashes of the news people, people muttering. Jesse hears Angela gasp audibly, and he feels more when he sees the tension in Reyes' posture grow. Ana, who had been leaning against Reinhardt's side, straightens herself up. 

"The planned headquarters," the omnic continues after a brief pause, "will contain within it the best technology money has to offer, along with state of the art transportation means and medical facilities. Our goal is to open doors within the next five to seven years, but until then, Overwatch can expect a huge increase in funding, along with a gracious 2.5% increase in all side projects." 

"Did you hear that!" Angela squeaks to his left, grabbing Ana's arm. "In Switzerland! I'll be able to go home!"

"It'll be great to have a headquarters in Europe," Ana agrees softly, petting her hand. Angela looks so excited, but Jesse can't help but think the old-timers look shocked. Well, it's probably a much bigger deal to them than himself and Angela. Jesse wants to bring it up, but he sees Reyes staring intently at Morrison onstage, as if he's willing him to look his way. Jesse focusses instead on Angela, who makes little happy jumps on the spot, going on about how she'll be able to show him Zürich, where she grew up, what foods he'll have to try and that they'll go skiing together. Jesse hasn't skied in his life.

On stage, the omnic ends his speech, and a PR person takes the stand, explaining she will now answers questions. Morrison has disappeared from the stage.

Their little group leaves the conference hall on Reinhardt's order, and they huddle in a smaller room that takes them away from all the news people who wants interviews and pictures. There's still food and drink, so Jesse doesn't complain. Angela is on her second glass of champagne now, her lip gloss a little smudged and her cheeks pink, and Jesse makes sure to stay close to her, just in case. She's giddy with the news, and won't stop talking about home, her accent getting thicker and thicker.

Gabriel, Ana, Reinhardt and now even Torbjörn are standing in a group in a corner, but the second Jack enters the room, followed by three representatives, Gabriel snaps his fingers at him, gesturing aside. "A word, Morrison," he says.

"Gabriel," Ana sighs, extending a hand to put it soothingly on his arm, but he ignores her.

Jack smiles, excusing himself, and walks over to Gabriel. Together, they walk a few steps, both grab glasses from a waiter offering them up, and retreat into the far corner.

"That was one hell of a speech," Gabriel says, taking a liberal gulp of his glass. He's aware that through the room, Ana is staring at him, but he doesn't care.

"Thank you," Jack says with a soft little smile. "I didn't write a word of it."

"I know." Gabriel sloshes the golden liquid in his glass for a moment. "So, was it hard? Keeping a secret from me for so long?"

Jack's little chuckle is genuine. "It was a surprise worth keeping, Gabe. It wasn't that hard. I mean... I would've told you, if I would've been allowed, but everyone is so happy right now. I'm glad I didn't spoil it."

"Mhm," Gabriel agrees, still staring into his glass. "How long did you know?" 

"About the HQ? Oh, well..." Jack tips his head aside, rubbing his chin. "Since I left ground zero."

Gabriel steps into Jack's personal space, making him take a step back instead. "So... about two weeks?" Gabriel mutters. When Jack only frowns and doesn't answer, he adds, "And you also knew that I wasn't going to get the increase you promised me? Only a fucking meager 2.5% that I have to share with all 'side projects'?"

Jack finally catches on. "This isn't the time, Gabriel, " he says, smile fading. "Tonight is for celebrating."

"I'm sure you have every damn reason to be celebrating, too, _Commander_ ," Gabriel says lowly. "It's a simple yes or no question. You just have to answer."

"You know it's more complicated that that," Jack answers, frown deepening into a scowl. There's a strain to his voice, like he's trying to keep it down, keep the conversation civil.

Gabriel barks a brief, humorless laugh. "You're gonna use the c-word on me, Jack?" he asks, waving his glass in Jack's direction. 

Jack can see heads turn now, hears whispers. He sees Ana making her way through the room, ready to deescalate whatever they're building up. "Let's discuss this later," Jack offers. He doesn’t want things to escalate. Not in public. Not _again_. He feels so goddamn tired. An entire fucking day in the spotlight, smiling and shaking hands and posing for pictures and being perfect, and Gabriel Reyes being confrontational is the last thing he wants to endure right now. He has his limits.

Unfortunately, Gabriel knows this, and knows how to twist and grind his nails into open wounds to make them hurt even more. “Later, huh,” he snaps. " _Fuck_ that, _cabrón_. We both know that 'discuss this later' means you'll get on your knees for me tonight, Jack. Hoping things will resolve themselves without any more drama. Don’t fucking lie me in the face like that!"

On the other side of the room, Angela just went on a tangent on how American chocolate just doesn't _compare_ , but both of them snap out of it when they hear Ana shout, and an eerie stillness overcoming the room after. Reyes is the center of attention; tense, broad, dark, hands balled into fists; he looks like he's ready to grab Morrison by the collar and throw him against the wall. Jesse can see Morrison inhale, the way his chest and shoulders raise, and then sink down again with his exhale.

"That will be all, Commander Reyes," he says, his tone dangerous and icy. "Do you _understand_?" He doesn't draw any more attention to them, doesn't look around or regard anyone. Even Ana stops in her approach, unsure. People awkwardly pretend not to pay too close attention. It's painfully uncomfortable.

Reyes turns around and leaves without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry for taking so long! Life and all that, you know how it is. Hope you enjoyed this chapter regardless! ;]


	8. Becoming a Man

 

In Jesse's mind, Reyes' voice bellows over the sound of everything else. Everything he's said, everything he made Jesse repeat to make sure the damn kid got it into that thick head of his. But it seems weirdly distant now, crouching here in cover with a rifle in one hand and binoculars in the other.

The compound looks empty—Jesse's small group of Blackwatch soldiers made it in alright, secured their cargo. It was a success, but he's lost one, Mortensen—sent in her right into enemy lines. An unforgivable error, Jesse knows, but he pushes the nagging thoughts aside, focusing on the mission. He still has the rest of them to get out alive. They still have to deliver the five crates of top secret weaponry across enemy territory, all the way to the delivery point where the payload will be transferred by Reyes' group. He's waiting for them there. The intercom is silent.

Behind him, Keri is breathing heavily. He got injured, but can walk. But Jesse has to account for that. One man down, one injured. His small group is safe in cover, for now. Outside, he can't see anything suspicious, but with all the empty buildings around them, the enemy could be hiding anywhere. Jesse doesn't want to risk any more losses. For now, they're safe here, and until they know how to handle the drop off, they should stay put.

Jesse decides he'll sneak up ahead and check the situation by himself. He's quick on his feet, and by himself, he has a better chance of going unnoticed. The rifle isn't exactly his favorite, but he can manage, take out a few people if he has to.

"Here's what we'll do," Jesse says as he lowers the binoculars and hands them to Jackson next to him. "You guys stay put. Keep an eye on the doors and windows, but we don't want to drag Keri around too much."

"I can walk," Keri protests.

"No," Jesse says, and hopes it sounds like an order. "We're going to split up. I'll sneak ahead and keep you updated. Maybe I can take out a few heads."

"You can't snipe with the rifle, McCree," says Nomura who's holding Keri up with one arm around his shoulders. "We should stick together, that way, we can cover all our sides—"

"With one injured, we're sitting ducks if we go out right now." Jesse shakes his head. "They're expecting that. I'm going out alone, see where they're hiding. That way, we can ambush them, and draw them out of their hole."

"You're the boss," Nomura mutters, but his voice makes clear that he doesn't like it.

Jesse doesn't comment on that. He checks his rifle and comm and goes out, ignoring their stares in his back.

He makes it out of the old office buildings and to the street easily enough. Parked in the back of the building they've holed themselves up is the truck with their cargo, guarded by Schroeder and Nier's group. He leaves them behind. He stares at the dark windows of the buildings around him, but he can't see the glint of a sniper rifle or binoculars anywhere, creeping from shadow to shadow.

Jesse is looking around, trying to get to higher ground and get himself out of the spotlight when his comm crackles to life and he has Schroeder's voice in his ear, hushed and strained. "We hear footsteps," she hisses. "Your orders? Over."

"Defend the payload!" Jesse has already turned back, grabbing his rifle tighter. "I'll try flanking them from behind. Over and out." He's barely stopped speaking when he sees, between the buildings across the street, a group of armed men moving towards their truck.

In the shadow of the building, they open fire. Jesse can hear Schroeder yell orders over the noise and several Blackwatch soldiers take cover behind the truck and surrounding scenery. Jesse can see all of it so clearly from where he is. It's like he's watching a stage play. He can't help the grin spreading on his face as he rises his rifle, taking careful aim under the brim of his hat. He's already envisioning how Reyes will see this, going through the recordings of their headpieces later.

Jesse shoots, and hits one man in the back. He goes down instantly, and Jesse has but a moment to roll into cover before the rest of his group empty their magazines into him. He comes up behind his cover and takes aim, but after two shots that miss, realizes that his magazine is empty. In the split second the realisation hits him and he doesn't duck back into cover again, he gets hit.

His hat flies off. His armor takes three hits to his chest, he feels another impact on his shoulder, hard enough to almost make him lose grip on the rifle. A shrill sound fills his ears.

Jesse grits his teeth. No, this can't be it, this can't be the end. He still has time. He can fix this, he won't let it end here—

"McCree," Reyes' dark, calm voice cracks through the comm. "Weapon down, the trial is over."

"No!" Jesse yells, throwing his rifle down to the floor and getting back to his feet. Around him, people are lowering their weapons, taking off their helmets. He sees Schroeder leave cover and walk over to Green of the enemy team, slapping him on the arm. "No," Jesse says again, grabbing his hat and putting it back on his head. "I almost had it—"

It takes a few minutes for Reyes to arrive, time that the men and women under Jesse's command use to meet up with each other, talking about the mission, but everyone avoids their young, appointed leader. Jesse sits by a small wall, rifle still defiantly in his hands, until Reyes' combat boots enter his vision and his commander takes the weapon off his rigid hands.

Jesse doesn't look up, and Reyes doesn't bother bowing down. Jesse can envision his crossed arms in the way Reyes' hips tilt to the side. There's a moment of silence before Reyes speaks. "Why did you leave your team under enemy fire?"

Jesse stares at his shoes and says nothing.

"What did you think you were doing, trying to take on six men on your own?" Reyes continues.

"I was going to surprise them," Jesse answers reluctantly.

Reyes groans, one hand slipping under his beanie to scratch his head. "Your job was to deliver the payload, and keep your team safe, _not_ to fail showing off your skills!"

Jesse nods.

"What was that, McCree?" Reyes asks.

"Yes, sir," Jesse mutters.

"What was your job, McCree?" Reyes prompts.

"Deliver the payload and keep my team safe, sir."

"What wasn't your job?"

"Split up and show off my skills, sir."

"Think about that, McCree," Reyes says before his posture eases up a little and he turns away. "Alright, good job everyone!" he says over the calamity of two teams coming back together as one. "Wrap it up here, we're done. Schroeder, Walters, Nomura, I want to see you in debriefing later. Dismissed!"

Jesse hates Reyes in this moment.

He remains sitting where he is for a moment, until finally, someone approaches him. Schroeder sits down next to him, offering him one of her cigarettes and patting him on the back. She got hit in the melee, too, going down at Green's hand. She would be dead, like Mortensen, like himself— "For what it's worth," she says as she lights the cigarette for him, "I think you did a pretty decent job. Leading a team is hard work. Nothing a kid should be doing."

"I'm not a kid anymore, am I," Jesse mutters, inhaling deep. At least the smoke burning his lungs helps a little against how bad he feels.

Schroeder casts him a long look from her incredibly blue eyes. "Right," she says then, before getting up and slapping him on the back one last time. "Happy birthday, Jesse. See you at dinner."  


* * *

 

It's 1200 sharp when Jack glances up from his screen to check the time when his intercom sizzles to life and his secretary says his visitor has arrived. Looks like he'll be skipping lunch again, he thinks with a suppressed sigh.

"Send him in," Jack says, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the nail of his thumb over his brow. The door to his office opens, and a lean man in a dark suit comes in; his stride wide and confident as he carries a plastic box and a cup of take-away coffee with him, placing both on Jack's desk without invitation.

" _Salut_ , commander," he says as he sits down. " _Voilá_ , a gift for my host. Am I right to assume you haven't eaten yet? Here's a salade césar for you. Please, eat." Even when speaking English, his accent is thick, twisting and turning his vowels and consonants, but there's a grace in the way he carries himself and his speech.

Jack leans in to grab the plastic box and pop off the lid, eyeing the fresh salad inside. "Thank you, Gérard," he says, taking off the plastic fork that is attached to the lid. "You're a lifesaver."

Gérard Lacroix smiles his handsome, thin smile. He's about Jack's age, but looks like he's still in his twenties. The war they've all been through has been marginally easier on him than Jack. While Jack already shows signs of permanent furrows between his brows—and with his enhancements, too—Gérard's face is free of wrinkles.

"So what have you got for me, Gérard?" Jack asks, stuffing a slice of chicken into his mouth. The coffee Gérard brought is strong and delicious; the stuff on base cannot possibly compare. A _real_ lifesaver. Jack feels practically reborn.

"Nothing new from Talon in the past five weeks," Gérard says, leaning back in his seat. "I know they haven’t been around long yet, not long enough to say anything for certain, but… Honestly, I'm willing to take that as more of a threat than any actual threat—I can practically feel that they're planning something, commander."

"Hmm," makes Jack, chewing thoughtfully. He doesn't bother swallowing before continuing, "you're the specialist. What do you think?"

"I am worried for central Europe, commander," Gérard says. "We were lucky enough with what happened in Germany. I have a feeling we need to be quicker on our feet if we want to avoid something like this in the future. Have you heard about Denmark?"

"Ah," makes Jack, taking the fork between his teeth as he opens a window on his screen, opening files and news. "Yes, I had someone here yesterday explaining the situation to me—something about progressing omnic rights, wasn't it?"

" _Ouias_ ," Gérard says. "The Danes are always very quick with these things. The Prime Minister held a speech last Friday, and threats have been high since then. Most are from anti-omnic groups, but I think Talon might be involved, or at least trying to use the situation for their advantage."

"Hmhm," Jack mutters. "So, what can I do for you, Gérard?"

"Quick on your feet as always, commander." Gérard smiles coyly. "I want a few Overwatch agents in Copenhagen when the Prime Minister will open a new refugee center for omnics. I want to make sure the minister is safe, as well as the attending public. Denmark is not a country of violence, but our control of foreign forces will be limited. It would be good to have a few boys in blue present, and be it just for the good looks."

" _Typical_ that something with Scandinavia would come up now. I _just_ dispatched Torbjörn to Venezuela," Jack sighs. Gérard hides a snort in a polite cough, and Jack relents. "Ah, well, good point. Yes, no, he might not be the best for the job. I see your point."

" _Personable_ agents would probably be more suited, _n'est-ce pas_?" Gérard agrees softly.

Jack hums and pushes down a button on his communicator. "Ana," he says. "Sorry for interrupting lunch. Business calls. Can you come over to my office?"

"Of course, Jack," she says, and Jack turns back to Gérard.

"So you think there's gonna be an assassination?" he asks.

"The threat is there, even if I can't say for sure how likely it is," Gérard answers. "But with Talon, you really can't ever know for sure. Even if there's just a riot started by groups not affiliated with Talon—think how in Germany—it's a big threat for omnic-human relations. The fewer amount of drama possible, the better. If this grand opening could go down without trouble, it would be a big sign to the world."

"Okay, so a show of force," Jack nods, flushing down the last of the salad with his coffee. "A few prominent faces for the media. When is this speech again?"

"The 15th," Gérard provides helpfully, while Jack taps through his calendar on his screen.

"Hmm, I can't go on my own, I have a meeting—" Jack mutters, more to himself, and then his intercom crackles to life, announcing Ana's arrival. She gets send in, Gérard leaves his seat to firmly shake her hand after she offers him a snappy salute.

"If I'd know it's only you, I'd brought the leftovers of my lunch," she says as Gérard pulls up a second chair for her.

"I'm sorry Ana," Jack says. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

"Have _you_ eaten, Jack?" she asks instead of answering, glaring at him, but Jack quickly, guiltily, points at the empty plastic container and coffee cup. She gives a quick nod before settling down, crossing one leg over the other. "What can I do for you?"

"We need a team to dispatch to Copenhagen on the 15th. I want to send a team under your command, if you're free."

"There's a possible threat of an assassination, so your sharp eyes will be needed," Gérard says. His voice takes a flirty lilt when he speaks to her. "I would be happy to work alongside you."

" _Under_ me, you mean, my dear," she chides softly; a tease. Gérard is not military; on the battlefield, she will be the one giving the orders.

"You can assemble a team to your liking," Jack tells Ana. "Bring people who have no quarrels working with omnics, though."

Ana's gaze is sharp; her cybernetic eye locking on to Jack as if looking right through him and into his mind. "What about Blackwatch?"

"What _about_ Blackwatch?" Gérard asks, unaware of what had happened between Jack and Gabriel. The two men have been going separate ways since. Their jobs make it painfully easy to avoid one another. Gabriel was in Peru last, uprooting a drug cartel, as far as Jack knows. He hasn't even read his weekly reports yet.Telling himself it can wait.

Jack's mouth sets in a firm line. "Blackwatch is not going to help avoid an assassination," he says sternly, voice flat.

Gérard opens his mouth. "Well, we don't know if—"

"Gabriel is _very_ good at crowd control." Ana simply talks over Gérard as if he isn't even there.

"He _hates_ omnics—"

"Yes, but he _is_ a professional. He can keep things under control, and he can take it should shit hit the fan."

"Ana—"

" _Jack_."

They stare at each other for a long moment.

"Do you know what the UN would say to you, letting your personal feelings get between you and Gabriel like this?" she hisses then. "You blame him of being unprofessional, and then you do things like this! You are just as bad as him."

"Ana, I will _not_ have you talk to me like this." Jack frowns deeply; he doesn't want to have this conversation right now, and Gérard's presence only makes it worse.  

"Oh please," Ana scoffs with a roll of her eyes. She moves, changing which leg she has crossed over the other, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't go all commander at me, Jack. You know I'm right."

Jack frowns at her. Of _course_ she is, when is she ever not? But he's not going to admit that to her face. The commander argument works on Reyes, always has, always will, but not on her. She considers herself his friend above all else, not a subordinate. For Gabriel, their ranks is a sore problem. And, in all honesty, Jack, too.

It was easier during the war. This one thing was easier.

"You _told_ me to assemble a team. So that's what I'll do. And I'd like Gabriel there with me," Ana says finally when Jack only scowls at her. "If he's free and if he wants to come, I will do this with him watching my back, because he's a good soldier and a great commander."

Jack decides to say nothing, only nods.

"And maybe I can take Jesse, too," Ana adds, rising off her chair and leaning over Jack's desk. "The kid's made a lot of improvements. And he's better off base than being imprisoned here."

"Do as you will," Jack mutters, tiredly.

"I will." Ana nods at him before giving Gérard another handshake and turning to leave.

 

* * *

 

Under Reinhardt's insistency, the punch contains real alcohol. Jesse counts fourteen pathetic looking balloons that have been strung together by thread, dangling alongside a banner that spells "HAPPY BIRthday JeSSE" in marker of various colors and, smaller below that, "¡Feliz cumpleaños!" in the handwriting that Jesse recognizes as Nuñez'. Reinhardt has added "ALLES GUTE ZUM GEB" in all caps at the other side, and, running out of space, continued around the corner of the sheet, "URTSTAG." Ana added Arabic to a small corner, or so Jesse guesses, because he can't read it. She could be calling him an idiot and he wouldn't know, but he doesn't mind. Nobody has ever bothered to hang up a banner for him, let alone add several of the languages people speak around base.

The punch tastes awful and Jesse feels tipsy after the first cup. He loves it. The cake Angela made is a little dry, and Jesse loves that too.

Jesse never had big expectations for his eighteenth birthday, but what Overwatch is giving him exceeds everything he dreamed of.

Torbjörn arrived late, which is the only reason that he's still sober when he grabs Jesse by the wrist to pull him aside a little. He pulls out a small box and pushes it into Jesse's hand. "There you go, lad," he says, slapping a hand jovially on Jesse's waist. "Polished 'er up for you."

Jesse takes off the lid to see Peacemaker embedded inside. She's shiny like she's brand new. All the little nicks and scratches are gone. Torbjörn went so far as to exchange the wood on the handle. It looks dark and smooth.

"Don't worry, she's still the same as before," Torbjörn says beside him. "Coupl'a new screws and a good buff, and the handle is ebony now."

"She looks great," Jesse says tenderly, giving the chamber a spin. It rolls quick and smoothly. "Thanks a lot, Torbs."

"Ah, it's nothing!" Torbjörn mutters, turning around and yelling something about saving him something to drink.

Jesse puts Peacemaker back into the box, thinking that she's never been stored so carefully before, and then Angela steps to his side.

"Happy birthday!" she says softly, for his ears only. She's carrying a small present in her hand, and gives Jesse a hug with the other. Jesse wishes she would give it to him so she could hug him with both arms, but he smiles at her nevertheless.

"Thank you," he says, and accepts the slim present. The wrapping paper is white with small golden flowers and a big orange bow. Three strips of tape keep it closed at the bottom. Jesse is impatient, but tries to pry it open with the nail of his pinky as to not tear the paper.

When he finally works it open, it's a book. _William Tell_ , the title reads, by one Friedrich Schiller. Ah, something German, then.

"Wilhelm Tell is our national hero," Angela explains excitedly. "He was an excellent marksman. A little bit like Robin Hood! I thought it might be to your liking, and you'd learn a little bit about Switzerland."

Jesse is aware that somewhere behind him, someone is laughing and making a comment about how it's probably the only book Jesse owns that doesn't contain pictures of naked ladies, but Jesse doesn't find it in himself to mind. Angela put thought into this, and she knows he likes action stories.

(He has no idea the play he's holding is 300 years old and he'll suffer a great deal while reading it, but he will read it, keeping the small book with him to keep him company. The scene with the apple is _really_ cool, after all.)

"Thank you," he says softly. His throat is tight. He tries not to breathe as he meets her eyes, and he has to put on a big smile to hide away how touched he really feels. "I was really hoping for a kiss, though."

Angela huffs and pets him on the arm with a tiny, balled fist, before laughing and leaning in to give him a peck to the cheek.

It's the best fucking birthday Jesse has ever had.

Commander Reyes walks up to him, and before Jesse can stop himself, his mouth says, "Just in time to give me a birthday kiss, boss!"

"Please," Reyes scoffs, shaking his head a little. Jesse notices he's still wearing his boots and armor, although it's late and everyone here is off duty. For a terrible moment, Jesse thinks Reyes will tear him away from his birthday party. It doesn't help that Reyes jerks his head to the side, telling him to come with. Jesse looks at Angela, but her smile tells him he doesn't have to worry right now.

They move from the rec room to the hallway, and Reyes doesn't bother to go further than outside the door to lean against a wall. "We got another job," he says unceremoniously. "We'll be leaving for Copenhagen at the end of the week."

"Copenhagen?" Jesse echoes.

"Europe," Reyes clarifies. "Amari has asked for a few Blackwatch people as backup on a security mission. The prime minister will be at an event, trying to promote equality between human and omnics."

"Huh," Jesse mutters. He realizes he's still holding his new book and Angela's pretty wrapping paper. He carefully starts folding it before he can tuck it between the pages. He thinks he'll keep it.

"Our specialist says there's reason to think the thing might go sour," Reyes continues, and then leans forward into Jesse's field of vision. "Hey."

Jesse looks up, not sure what it is he sees on his commander's face.

"You'll be seeing Denmark," Reyes tells him. "That's a good thing. You'll have some off time there, too. It's basically a vacation. It's a nice country. Cold as shit though, so bring warm clothes. Understand?"

"Yessir," Jesse mutters.

Reyes leans back and snorts a little. "No reason for the formalities, McCree," he says, and then reaches inside one of his pockets to pull out something long and round. For a terrifying moment, Jesse thinks it's a vibrator, all shiny white plastic and all, but when Reyes hands it to him and Jesse takes it with fumbling hands, he can see a label on it; heavy looking paper with gold embroidery on a deep blue ground and Spanish writing.

It's a cigar.

"Cuban," Reyes comments flatly. "Not that cheap, cherry flavored shit you usually smoke, but maybe you'll like it nevertheless."

Jesse screws off the lid and slides the cigar into his palm, bringing it up to his face to smell it. He can tell this is nothing like the cheap cigarettes he usually smokes, and certainly nothing like anything he'd ever get for himself.

"Maybe save it for a special occasion," Reyes advises. "Although I suppose turning eighteen is a pretty good reason."

"Yeah," Jesse agrees with a grin, screwing the lid back on. A handmade banner and a book and his gun and a Cuban cigar. "Not many kids are so lucky."

Reyes gives him a weird look from his dark eyes. "You're not a kid anymore, Jesse," he says. "You're a man now. And that's good, it's a good thing, but you also have new responsibilities now. You've really come around. Since I took you in you've learned a lot, seen a lot of places, met a lot of people. I want everyone to see the potential I first saw in you when you were in that shitty little holding cell." Jesse barely registers the hand that rests on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze; he's too busy staring up at Reyes with disbelief. "Happy birthday, Jesse."

Jesse's mouth open, but the words won't come. Reyes' hand slips from his shoulder, and he pushes his fists back into the front pocket of his hoodie, like he's embarrassed. It's only that little detail that makes Jesse find his tongue.

"Thanks, boss," Jesse says, clutching the book and the cigar.

Reyes grumbles an affirmative and then nods back towards the door. "Go back to your party, cowboy," he says. "You've got a long week ahead of you."

Jesse turns. He doesn't mind that Reyes leaves into the other direction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new years everyone, I hope y'all left the shit stain that was 2016 safely!
> 
> At this point it's probably safe to say that I won't be able to do weekly updates (what a lofty goal, fowo, we all know you're as fast as a snail going backwards uphill) but once or twice a month should be a little more realistic. 
> 
> [Click](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExAM8D7cfbI) for Jesse's birthday blues. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked what you read, why not [buy us a coffee](http://ko-fi.com/A801AXT)?
> 
> Idea, storyboard, editing: ThisIsVenereVeritas  
> Idea, execution, graphics: fowo


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